


Where Wildflowers Grow

by KuroRiya



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: At least in my opinion, Christianity, Conflict of religious beliefs, Fear, Flowers, It'll give you a leg up on what's happening, Learning Tolerance, M/M, Marco is always right, Mentioned Abuse, Minor Violence, Paganism, Pay attention to them, Slow Build, The Erwin and Levi is very minor, The mention is vague, They will always mean something, but worth it, ignorance, it's painfully slow, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroRiya/pseuds/KuroRiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows better than to associate with the Pagan family near the edge of town. Especially Jean. So many years of church and his father's harsh words have taught him as much. And yet, he can't seem to keep his eyes from wandering that way any time he passes by.</p><p> Jean is raised Christain, while Marco's family is Pagan, set roughly in the 1700s. Marco always seems to know too much, and Jean always seems to think too much. It's a dismal situation, one that begs the ultimate question: Can they somehow make it, despite the hardships?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tiger Lilies

Jean knew plenty about the Bodt family. They lived on the furthest plot of land from the rest of the town. They let wildflowers grow on their vast lawn. They had several children, some old enough to have their own families, some young enough to be learning English still. They kept sheep and a few chickens, and two cows. They rarely sold anything to anyone, only making enough to keep themselves fed and clothed.

But the most important thing Jean knew about the Bodts was that he should avoid them whenever possible. They weren't god-fearing Christians like the rest of the town. No, they were pagan, and openly so. As if they were proud! That was a dangerous thing to be in that time and place. When Jean had first heard the word, slurred as if it were a curse, directed at the family, he'd immediately made the decision to have nothing to do with them. That wasn't something he wanted to be associated with.

And yet, he found himself glancing at their property curiously every time he passed it. What he was looking for, not even he knew. Perhaps he wanted to see what it was that made these people so different from his family, from all the other families in the area. The Bodt home looked normal enough. It was two stories, which was strange for the town. Most of them weren't wealthy enough to have two stories. But they did have many children, and therefore more need for space.

They'd built onto the house as the years passed, and Jean could clearly distinguish between what was new and what was old. But it was a nice enough house, kept in good repair. They had about as much land to their names as Jean's own family did, though they didn't keep much of a farm; just one small plot, enough to grow what they needed to feed themselves. The rest grew wild, dotted in the spring and summer with various flowers. That was normal enough though. Plenty of people didn't bother trying to tame their land beyond the farm space.

There weren't any sacrificed animals anywhere, or devil altars, or even freaky candles in the windows. No pentagrams as decoration, or random blood. It was just a normal, slightly mismatched house with a low fence and weathered wood, bleating sheep chewing absently at long grass. And that was confusing to Jean, it was overwhelming even. How could this family's property look so completely normal, so average, yet contain something so strange?

And so, he found himself staring, eyes tracing over every inch of the home, over every flower, every sheep. What was he looking for? He still couldn't decide. It was so compelling a question that he sometimes found himself stopped in front of the house, just watching everything that happened within the fence. He'd catch himself, quickly jogging home, avoiding the eyes of anyone nearby lest they question him about it.

This continued for months. He'd just look as he passed. He didn't join the townspeople in their jeering catcalls as they walked home from church. The Bodt land was, ironically, very near to the town's religious sanctuary. It was a bad place for them, as, when church let out, everyone had to pass the pagan land. And they made sure the family knew how bad that was. He wondered how they felt about having to clean up all of the things thrown past their fence, wondered if they heard the swear words, and, if so, how they felt about them. But he knew better than to ask anyone, especially one of the Bodts.

And then, one day, as he was staring, as he found himself doing more and more, he was startled by a voice. It was low and sweet; thick, like honey. And it drew him in, enough so that he was uncomfortable. But he followed the sound, finding a freckled face, earthy eyes staring back at him. And he backed up, fear rising in his stomach. He'd been caught, and by one of the Bodts no less. He knew. That dark skin and those freckles were characteristic of the family.

The boy seemed a bit surprised by his sudden retreat to the other side of the street, but it melted to something akin to amusement.

"Do you need something?" He called, loud enough for Jean to hear across the street. He never received a response, Jean having quickly taken his leave, heading for home, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just been spoken to by one of the Bodts. What if someone saw? Would they think he was friendly with them? He most certainly was not!

No one said anything about it in the days to come, so he surmised that he was likely safe. And so he let himself think about the encounter at last. The boy's face was a little foggy in his mind. He hadn't looked at him long. He remembered the smooth, freckled skin, the color of a dark rum. But his features were fuzzy. He remembered the round, droopy eyes, rimmed with a thick layer of long, dark lashes, and the way the brown shone with flecks of amber when he'd been close enough to see. But that was all he had really seen before he'd run away.

And now, even more so than before, he was curious. Who was the boy, who seemed about his age, and what did he think about? But it was too dangerous to speak with him, or even ask about him. No, Jean couldn't take that kind of risk. He had his family's reputation to think of. As one of the more influential families in town, he knew better than to be caught with the Pagan boy.

To chase away the thoughts, he began spending more time at the Jaeger residence. While Eren annoyed him to no end, he had long fancied Mikasa Ackerman, who also lived in the home. So he put up with the Jaeger boy to give his best attempt at wooing the girl. And she seemed to be responding well, in his opinion. Better than the first time he'd spoken to her, anyway.

He decided, on one of the days he was planning on visiting Mikasa, to pick her some flowers. Girls liked things like that, after all. So before he headed for the Jaeger property, he walked towards the outskirts of town. There were plenty of fields where wildflowers grew, and he was sure he'd find a decent array. Not that he was looking for anything in particular, but he figured, if he got a bunch of different kinds, he'd be bound to find something she liked.

And he did just that, walking back into town with a fistful of brightly colored flowers that he didn't know the names of. He was just passing the Bodt property when his eyes fell on the same boy that had spoken to him across the fence last time, and he tensed. He knew he should hurry, before the boy could spot him. And yet, he was frozen in place, watching him pick up a lamb and carry it to its mother, who was bleating in distress. He laughed when she immediately quieted, and the sound carried all the way over to Jean's stiff position on the other side of the fence.

Seeming to suddenly realize the existence of another human, the boy turned, meeting eyes with Jean, and he began walking over. Jean wanted to go, just as quickly as he had last time, but something compelled him to stay. And, before he could even realize he was still standing, rooted to the spot, the boy was upon him.

"Hello." He said, voice still thick and sweet like honey, but more cautious, quiet this time. It was as if he was trying to avoid scaring Jean away. He nearly did.

It took a long time for Jean to work up the nerve to reply. But he did.

"Hi." He offered. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was, apparently, plenty, because the boy's face broke into a pleased grin.

"I'm glad you're talking to me this time. My name is Marco." He offered. His hand didn't come out for a shake, as if he already knew that Jean wouldn't take it. "And you're Jean. Pretty much everyone in town knows your family." He added. "Everyone knows mine too, but not for the same reason. There are a lot of us, though, so you probably haven't heard my name."

And Jean hadn't. He didn't know any of them by name, actually. Just that title, Bodt. It was almost like a condemnation.

"Are you taking those to Mikasa?" He wondered. Jean flinched, looking up at him with surprise. How did he know that? Sure, it was common knowledge that Jean was pursuing the girl, but nobody talked to the Bodts. Where had he gotten that information? But how could he ask that? No, that wouldn't do. He simply settled for nodding, not trusting his voice not to betray his disbelief.

"Well, I suggest you start over. She won't like those." He said, as if it should be obvious.

"What?" Jean demanded, voice harsher than was probably necessary. But honestly, what right did this boy have to belittle him like that? He'd worked hard to pick the flowers. And how could he presume to know what Mikasa would and wouldn't like?

"Mikasa is a mature girl, at least in sensibilities. A random bunch of flowers wouldn't suit her personality. You should pick one type of flower for the main body, and then accent it with one other." He explained, bending down. "I suggest these." He added, holding up an orange colored flower, spotted with red along the petals.

"They're commonly called tiger lilies. And you could use those white one's you've already got to accent."

Jean, though wary, took the words for what they were. By the way he spoke, Marco obviously knew more about flowers than Jean did. And his assessment of Mikasa's personality had been accurate enough. And, honestly, what could listening to him hurt? She'd be getting flowers either way. And he'd rather not get on this boy's bad side. Who knew what might happen if he did.

"Alright," he agreed, and Marco smiled at him again, his thick lips capturing Jean's attention. He took a moment to look at the boy's face, recalling his fuzzy remembrance from before. His lips were full and looked smooth, just a little chapped. And his nose was long, barely upturned at the end. It was a handsome face, and Jean thought it too bad that, most likely, the boy would never find a wife. Not in this town, anyway.

"Here, you can come pick some. We have them all over." Marco offered, gesturing for Jean to hop over the low fence.

It was a terrifying idea to the teen. He got the feeling that, if he did, he'd somehow be committing to something he wasn't sure he wanted to commit to. What though? To Marco, to paganism, to sin? Surely just stepping on the property wouldn't mean anything. He was only picking some flowers. There weren't tiger lilies anywhere else he could think of, so it wasn't as if he could go to some other field instead. And Marco had made no moves to try and convert him to the devil's religion, so he had no reason to fear the boy. In fact, he'd been nothing but friendly.

He made his choice, dropping the flowers he'd already gathered and hopping over, planting his feet firmly on the ground. It still felt strange to him, foreboding even. This land was so forbidden, so feared by the townspeople. Yet, there he stood, perfectly intact and still just as Christian as when he'd woken up that morning. And Marco looked just as pleasant as he had from the other side.

The boy beckoned, wanting Jean to follow him, and he did, walking to a patch of the yard where the lilies grew thickly. They were vibrant against the green of the grass, and Jean knelt, looking them over.

"Pick as many as you like." Marco said quietly, laying down in the grass while Jean got to work. He didn't try to make conversation, only laid there, staring up at the sky. Jean tried not to pay him any mind, picking a decent bouquet before he stood.

"I'm done." He offered, and Marco got back up, nodding, leading him back towards the fence. Jean jumped over quickly, feeling a strange anticipation building up inside. He just got the feeling that something bad would happen if he stayed any longer. But, of course, Marco called out to him.

"Wait!" He shouted, and Jean turned around, looking at him. Again, Marco smiled, waving him back over. "You forgot the baby's breath." He said simply, picking up the discarded bunch of flowers, fishing the white ones out. Then he reached for the ones in Jean's hand, and they were nearly dropped in Jean's haste to let it go. Marco didn't mention it though, interspersing the small flowers between the lilies before handing it back.

"Thanks." Jean offered, already backing up again.

"I'm not catching, I promise." Marco replied. It was as if he knew. But it wasn't spoken with anger or hurt. It was just a statement. Jean made sure he was gone before Marco could demand a response.

He walked straight to the Jaeger home, knocking frantically, as if he were being tailed. But, looking back, there was no sign of the Bodt boy. Still, he was relieved when the door opened, even when it was Eren on the other side, looking at him curiously and maybe with a hint of annoyance. But, after seeing the flowers, he called for Mikasa.

The girl came down the stairs, looking as neutral as always. She came to the door and gave Jean that unimpressed look, eyes glancing to the arm he had behind his back, hiding the flowers. Without much finesse, he thrust the arm forward, and she looked at the flowers with the smallest amount of surprise. And then, to his amazement, her lips pulled into a small smile, and she took them.

"Tiger lilies… My favorite. How did you know?" She wondered, heading back towards the kitchen. Jean followed, at a loss for words as she pulled out a vase.

"I… I don't know, just a feeling." He offered. Mikasa nodded, filling the vase with water and pushing the stems in.

"They're beautiful. Where did you find them?" She inquired, and he tensed yet again.

"O-Oh, um… Just one of the fields outside of town." He replied.

"I'll have to look again. Most years I can only find them on the Bodt property. They don't mind if I pick some though." She said, and Jean's eyes widened.

"You've been on their land?" He demanded. She turned to face him, though he couldn't read her expression.

"I usually pick the ones close to the fence, but yes, I've been inside. Marco, one of the older boys, invites me in whenever he sees me looking at the flowers. He's very nice." She explained. Jean, despite having just done the same himself, wore a face of horror. Mikasa rolled her eyes. "I do not see the point in fearing a family that has done no one any harm. I understand that they don't have the same beliefs as everyone else, but they keep to themselves, and don't bother anyone. They've never been anything but polite to me." She supplied. And Jean couldn't dispute it.

No matter how much people said about their devil worshipping and their animal sacrifices, there was never once a story about them bringing harm to anyone. No one had a horror story of crossing a Bodt's path, of being attacked. No one could say that they'd been coerced into devil worship themselves. In fact, the vast majority of the town couldn't even say that they'd spoken to any of the Bodts.

And, from his brief encounter just before coming to visit Mikasa, Jean could honestly say that Marco Bodt had been one of the nicest people he'd spoken to, even if only for a moment. Most people bothered him with formalities, forced their expectations of his social standing on his every word. He always felt stiff and removed when he spoke to most people. But Marco had given off a feeling of acceptance, of comfort. No matter what Jean had said, the boy would likely have taken it in stride. And that was a foreign concept to him.

He talked with Mikasa for a bit, then excused himself and headed home. Thoughts of the Bodt boy followed him. For someone who never spoke to anyone, Marco was very observant. He'd remembered that Mikasa liked tiger lilies. He knew who Jean was. He knew that Jean was trying to woo the girl. How had he gotten that information? Before that first time a few weeks ago, Jean had never even seen Marco.

He tried to put it from his mind as he entered his home, as if his father would be able to tell just by looking at him that he was thinking about the freckled boy. Maybe he would be able to. And that was a scary enough prospect to have Jean trying to chase away thoughts of whiskey colored skin and sweet chocolate eyes.

But the words stuck.

I'm not catching, I promise.


	2. Anemone

He'd vowed not to go there again. After he spent an entire week trying not to think about the Bodt boy and failing miserably, he decided it was dangerous territory. So, of course, that made it near impossible. He never realized how frequently he passed the property. More than once a day he'd notice, with a start, that he was passing by the low fence that he'd jumped over just a few days ago. And not only that, he started noticing that Marco wasn't as scarce as he'd initially thought.

As he would pass, his eyes would find the figure, almost always. He'd be tending the sheep, or chasing chickens, or playing with the dogs, or watering crops. How had he never noticed the boy before? And the other Bodt children would be out on occasion, doing work of their own. It was so strange; Jean had never seen any of them before, yet there they all were. Had he simply not been paying attention before, or were they coming out for him? But no, none of them paid him any mind.

Except Marco. Somehow, the boy always seemed to know when Jean was passing. He'd look up from whatever he was doing and catch Jean's eyes with his. But he didn't approach, didn't call out. He'd return to whatever he was doing and let Jean pass without a fuss.

Jean felt like Marco knew something he didn't, and that was not a feeling he liked to have. But it seemed like he was waiting for something. But what? What could he want from Jean? There was an eerie sense of attraction looming over Jean. He wanted to talk to him, wanted to learn about him and his family. Maybe it was that nagging curiosity of his that had already proven dangerous. But he couldn't help it. It was making him mad, this need to learn, to question.

And so, finally, he worked up the courage to call out to the other boy. None of the other siblings were out, so it was only Marco that came when Jean shouted. But, now that he was before him, what was it he wanted to say? He hadn't thought of it before calling the boy over.

"Hello, Jean." Marco said politely. Jean nodded, taking in the boy's appearance. He was sweaty from a day's work, but he didn't smell badly, and the dirt on his clothing was somehow excusable. It suited him, in a strange way.

"Hi." He replied. Marco smiled.

"Would you like to help me for a bit? I need to herd the sheep back up this way." He offered. And what possessed him to nod, he'd never know, but nod Jean did, taking that little leap over the fence and following Marco to the back of the property, past what he could have seen from the street. And they kept walking until a field came into view. This was where the sheep were, grazing lazily. They looked up when they heard the boys approaching though.

They looked like they were about to start stampeding away in fear, but they calmed when they recognized Marco, and went back to grazing. One of the dogs, a big, fuzzy white one, came lumbering up to Marco's side. The boy grinned, bending down to scratch it behind the ears.

"Hey girl, you did a good job today, right?" He inquired, and the dog yipped playfully, backing off, then rounding around them. She nudged into Marco, sending him lurching forward, and he laughed. "Alright, alright, get to work, I know."

And he did, whistling for the other dogs. These ones were herders, Jean knew that much. Most of them were collies, and they came running at Marco's call. They lined up before him, and he gave them their orders.

"Cast!" He called, and the dogs got to work immediately, rounding the sheep up into a tight group. Marco nodded his head towards the house, and the dogs started leading them in the correct direction. Marco himself waited till all of them had passed before he started walking, Jean on his heels.

"They're well trained." Jean mumbled, not wanting to seem rude by not offering any conversation. Marco nodded, smiling after them.

"All of us have trained one." He began. "The white one from earlier is mine. I didn't want to train one of the herders, so they got me that fluffy monstrosity. I trained her as a Livestock Guardian. She's saved quite a few sheep from the coyotes. Loves them like they were hers." He said, stooping down to pick up a lamb that had fallen behind. "This one's new." He offered, bouncing it once in his arms, earning a bit of bleating. "Hasn't found her legs just yet." He laughed.

Jean finally smiled, unable to deny that the lamb was cute.

"Does she fall behind a lot?" He wondered.

"Yep," Marco replied, nodding. "But so did her mother. She'll figure it out sooner or later." He offered. "They all do. It just takes some longer than others."

Jean nodded. He'd never need to know that. He didn't raise sheep, nor would he ever, most likely. But for some reason he felt like Marco's words should mean something to him. Well, at least he was talking, and it felt a lot less terrifying when they could converse like this, like normal people.

"You're on your way home, right?" Marco asked. Again, Jean nodded. "You usually pass by around this time. What are you doing during the day?"

"I'm apprenticing with the local journalist. So I go around and talk to people, to see if I can find anything interesting going on. My father's pissed, wanted me to be the tax collector like him, and still thinks he's going to coerce me into it, somehow. I like writing, though." He offered. Marco smiled, nodding.

"That sounds like a fun job. But is there much interesting going on here?" He wondered. Jean laughed bitterly.

"Almost never. We had to put out a piece last week about some kids that fell into the river. One of them broke his leg. That's the most exciting thing we've had happen in a while, actually. We fill the majority of the space with news from the bigger cities closer to the coast." He explained. Marco frowned.

"Was he okay?" He inquired. Jean was surprised. Most people didn't care about that sort of thing.

"Oh, uh, yes. He's already up and around again. Jaeger got him patched up with a splint and some crutches." He assured, and Marco's face returned to calm.

"That's good. Broken legs can be really bad." He pointed out. "I broke mine when I was younger, and I nearly died. We couldn't afford the doctor, and I got really sick, and they just barely pulled me out of it. I'm pretty lucky, actually." He admitted. And it was then that Jean noticed that, indeed, Marco walked favoring his right side. It was so miniscule that he hadn't even noticed it before.

"I've never broken anything." He replied. No, he'd been too well taken care of.

"You're even more lucky, then. It hurts something awful, believe me. My sister, Mona, recently broke her arm, and I had to take care of her. She cried night and day. She's doing better now." He supplied, smiling. "Even went out to play with the dogs earlier. She won't be able to use it for a while yet, though." He added. Jean nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"I don't work like you do." He pointed out, nodding towards the lamb in the boy's arms. Marco nodded.

"No, you don't. But your work is hard too, especially in a little town like this." He offered. They were approaching the house now, and he put the lamb down, the little creature clumsily finding its footing before clamoring off to find its mother. The dogs led the sheep into a smaller area, and Marco called them all out before closing the gate, leaving only the sheep. There was still plenty of room, but less grass, so many of the sheep got comfortable, clearly planning on taking a nap.

"I'm done for the day." Marco announced, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. "And it's about time for dinner. You're welcome to join us, if you want, but I'm guessing you don't." He said, and Jean froze, looking up at the boy. The offer scared him. It scared him because he had half a mind to accept it. He quickly shook his head.

"No, thanks. I should get home." He replied, too quickly, heading towards the fence. Marco nodded as he went.

"Alright. I'll see you again." He called. And that scared Jean too. Because, the way Marco said it, it didn't sound like a casual farewell. It sounded like a premonition, like it was definitely going to happen. Like he already knew that it was going to happen. Jean offered nothing in response, retreating quickly, not turning to look back until he was well out of sight.

All he could see was the back of the house; a few of windows already alight with candles, chasing away the oncoming evening darkness. He wondered about the family inside, imagined them all gathering around the table. All twenty of them. That was an exaggeration, probably. He'd have to ask Marco how many siblings he actually had.

And there it was, that fear again. He was planning on seeing Marco again, without even realizing. It seemed so obvious that they would encounter one another; he hadn't even given it a second thought. But he was now, stumbling home and offering some half-witted excuse for why he was so late getting back. It worked though, and he was able to sit to dinner and go to bed without incident. Yet his mind was full of tan skin and lambs, of tiger lilies, collies, and freckles. And he couldn't stop the thoughts even if he tried. And he was scared.

Not scared enough not to go back the next day before meeting with the journalist, helping Marco collect the eggs from the hens before he left for work. That really only meant that he took the basket that Marco was carrying and held it out for the other boy while he worked. Jean had never worked with hens before.

"Aren't you scared of them?" He asked dumbly, looking at the creatures in question. They'd always made him uncomfortable. Marco only chuckled.

"No. I raised most of them from chicks, so I'm used to them." He replied. Jean winced as one walked past him.

"But their eyes… And the way they walk… They're creepy." He decided. Again, Marco laughed.

"I'm sure you like eggs though." He pointed out, and Jean couldn't help but nod, thinking of the scrambled eggs he'd had for breakfast. "And I bet you like chicken too." He added. Jean shuddered, the thought of eating one of the birds rather horrific to him. He much preferred them already plucked and beheaded. But chicken was one of his favorite meals.

"I'd rather not think about it." He mumbled, and Marco smiled, dropping the topic.

"You're up pretty early for someone who isn't a farmer." He pointed out, and Jean groaned.

"I know." He agreed, voice exasperated. "Levi insists on getting up before the sun."

"Ah, I know Levi. He's not so bad." Marco offered. Jean sputtered.

"You know Levi?" He demanded, and Marco nodded curiously.

"Sure. He's come around to ask us questions a few times. People are pretty wary of us, and when they start getting a little too wary, he comes and asks us about whatever the issue is, and he'll publish it to calm people down." He explained. And Jean kind of remembered a few articles like that. He'd just assumed that Levi made them up. Apparently not everyone was as scared of the Bodts as he'd thought.

"We tend to be at the center of most people's issues, whether we're actually involved in them or not." He added, shrugging. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, but a lot of people are scared of us." He said, turning to look at Jean. "You're scared of us."

And Jean couldn't deny it. For, even as he stood holding a basket full of eggs for him, he was terrified to be standing next to this boy. He was scared to touch him, to talk to him, to even acknowledge his existence. No. He wouldn't deny it.

"But that's alright. We're used to it." He assured, turning back around. "We're not bad though, Jean. We're not here to eat your children or convert you to the religion of the devil." He promised.

Jean was surprised yet again. Could Marco read his thoughts? It was starting to seem that way, the more he was around him.

"You're not?" He asked without thinking. He immediately regretted it, realizing how stupid the question sounded. Of course they weren't.

"No, we're not. We don't worship Satan. We don't even believe in him." Marco replied, slapping his hands against his pants in a bid to clean them off. Jean was, truly, confused.

"You don't…" He started, but Marco cut him off.

"No. Nor do we worship God as you do. While we believe that he exists, we see him in several forms. Simply put, our way of thinking is that there is no way that one god could handle the needs of every person, every creature on this earth. We prefer to believe that there are many entities that make up your concept of God. I'm sure you know of a similar concept, you go to church every Sunday." He pointed out.

"You have the holy trinity, the father, son, and holy spirit. It's something like that, but we divide it further. We believe there is a different deity for most things, and not all of them are male. It doesn't make sense for there to only be a male God; there would be no balance. No, there is a god of war, a goddess of harvest, a goddess of love, a god of water. We use the classic names for them, like the Romans. But other families use different names. The idea is the same though." He tried to explain.

"It makes it much easier for us to worship. We have a specific god to speak to in different situations. If we are having a bad harvest, then we pray to the god of the harvest. If we want to find love, we pray to the goddess of love. Just as you would pray to God if you needed to find water, we would pray to Neptune. It's a different name, but is it really that different?" He wondered, looking at Jean, who was still holding the basket. The one in question couldn't think of a way to reply, so he simply refused eye contact. Eventually though, he did speak.

"It's blasphemy not to say so." He pointed out, still not looking at the boy. But he could feel the disappointed gaze. "There can only be one God." He said, the words feeling mechanical to him. He believed them, of course, but he wished he could say them with more conviction, like anyone else in town would have. Marco frowned, sighing.

"It's fine that you believe that. You're obviously not the only one." He replied, voice still level. "But that's not how I think." He offered simply.

"You're wrong." Jean announced, frowning deeply, just like his pastor did when he spoke of the godless Pagans. Marco turned to him, sharply.

"Jean, I'm respecting your religion, please do the same for mine." He plead. But, to Jean, it sounded more like a demand.

"But it's wrong." He said, stubbornness and years of church not allowing him to back down. Marco's brows furrowed, and Jean could see anger flash across his features for a second, but it was quickly replaced with practiced, forced calm.

"I understand that you think so. I'm not asking you to agree with my beliefs, I'm just asking you to accept that they are mine, and mean the same to me as yours do to you." He explained, and Jean withered underneath the steady gaze. "If I were to tell you that your religion was wrong, how would you feel? Is it fair of you to say that to me?" He demanded. Jean winced, shaking his head, guilt flooding his mind. He hadn't thought before he'd spoken, he'd simply repeated what he'd been told his whole life. It was so much easier to do than trying to comprehend the things that Marco was speaking of. But, truly, couldn't he just ignore the fact that the boy worshipped differently? Surely it wasn't so important a part of Marco's life that they couldn't be around each other at all. It was quiet, awkward. But, finally, Marco sighed.

"Anyway, I'm not trying to convert you or anything. I just thought you might like to know a little more about us. We're not as terrible as you're probably thinking." Marco finished, taking the basket from Jean's hands. Their fingers brushed, but Jean didn't flinch. Marco wasn't so scary anymore. "You should probably get going, or Levi will be out for your head." He pointed out, and Jean nodded. He needed time to think about all that he'd learned anyway. Marco had taught him a lot, just in the few minutes they'd spent together that morning. He needed to process it all, to understand and develop opinions.

"Yeah. I'll see you." He called, running for the fence and jumping it easy. He turned and waved before he started for Levi's house. Marco waved back. And it didn't scare him. He wanted to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can say with a fair amount of confidence that this is the most religion-heavy chapter in the fic. While their beliefs to play a part throughout the story, they don't really have any in-depth talks about them beyond this. So if the religious talks were what you were worried about in regards to this story, then you can relax; you've already made it past that!
> 
> So, to clarify, after discussing with CousinNick about the incredible number of different Pagan branches and beliefs and whatnot, I decided to make Marco's family Romanesque with a bit of Christian undertone. Because of their heritage, which is mostly Italian for this story, and because of where they've lived, that seemed the most appropriate. I owe a lot to CousinNick for helping me with that bit, and educating me about practices and all of that jazz. It was quite an experience!
> 
> I'd also like to mention this here: This story has an incredibly slow build. Like, they both have a lot to work through. So, while I do consider it a romantic story, I want to point out that the romance definitely starts out subtle. They won't be doing any boyfriend things for many a chapter. But my hope is that the gradual build will make it more believable, and that it will overall add to the story.
> 
> Whatever the case, I hope you enjoyed chapter two, and hopefully you'll come back for chapter three! Thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated.


	3. Periwinkle

He came again after Levi told him to go home for the day. It was a bit earlier than the day before, so he had more time to spare. He knew he should be concerned that he fully intended to spend it with Marco, but he wasn't. Because, now that he wasn't scared of the boy anymore, he was left with burning curiosity, inquisitiveness. He wanted to know everything that Marco could tell him. And his father said he would never make a good Journalist. Ha!

As if he'd been waiting for Jean to come, Marco rounded the corner of the house, a watering can in hand. A younger boy followed, holding another can, just like Marco's. When he saw Jean, Marco headed over to the fence, his younger brother hot on his heels.

"Jean." He greeted, smiling. "Hello."

"Hey." Jean returned, awkwardly putting a smile on as well, glancing down to the shorter Bodt that had caught up to his older sibling.

"This is Nardo. Say hello." Marco directed at the younger boy, nudging him.

"H-Hi." The boy offered warily, staring up at Jean with his brown eyes, almost the same shade as Marco's. He didn't have as many freckles though. Marco rolled his eyes, nudging him again.

"You'll have to forgive him. Like the lamb from yesterday, he hasn't quite found his legs." He laughed, mussing the dark hair upon Nardo's hair. "You can go inside now, if you like. It's Arturo's turn to bring the sheep in, so we're done for the day." He offered. The boy quickly retreated, taking Marco's can as he went and putting both of them in a shed before he went inside. Jean watched, intrigued by the boy's introverted nature. It contrasted so starkly with Marco's openness and comfortable air.

"Is he always so shy?" He wondered. Marco smiled grimly.

"With strangers, yes. He knows that we're not exactly the most welcome people in town. It doesn't help that you look so annoyed all the time." He pointed out, grinning. Jean blanched, fumbling for a retort. "You ought to work on that. You'll have nasty wrinkles there if you keep that up." He added, laughing as he pointed to the spot where Jean's brows always furrowed.

"Oh hush." Jean finally managed, trying to cover as much of his red face with his hands as he could. Marco laughed a bit longer, then it died away, and he gestured for Jean to come in. He hopped the fence, without so much as a thought this time. The motion was fluid, natural, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, not just a couple of days.

He followed the brunette to the other side of the house, where he'd emerged from earlier. They passed the field, leaves and vines already poking out, and walked instead to a meadow, all grass and wildflowers. Marco sat down, stretching his arms over his head before falling onto his back, sighing. Jean, a little more hesitant, eventually copied, lying next to the boy and resting the back of his head on his crossed arms.

"Any interesting stories today?" Marco asked, voice a little deeper than usual, since he was lying down. Jean scoffed.

"Not unless you think that Annie Leonhardt beating up Reiner Braun for the umpteenth time is interesting." He replied. While the two were supposed to be friends, along with Bertholdt Fubar, they often ended up at odds, and Annie always got the upper hand, in the end. It was funny the first few times, but it wasn't news-worthy anymore.

"Ah, you'd think he'd learn his lesson." Marco suggested, and Jean nodded.

"Yeah. But it's part of this town, now. They'll probably be telling their grandkids about how famous they were in their day." He guessed. Marco was quiet for a while.

"I… I don't think either of them will ever have grandchildren." He admitted when Jean glanced over at him.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Jean questioned. Marco looked uncomfortable, though his posture remained relaxed.

"It's just a feeling." He replied, lids sliding closed over dark eyes. Jean could tell he didn't want to talk about it, so he let it go, relaxing back into the grass. He was worried about his clothes, doing his best to avoid grass stains. His mother would have his head if he came home looking like he'd romped around in his work clothes. But Marco didn't seem to care in the least about his own clothes. And, Jean supposed, they were already dirty anyway.

Marco was never entirely clean, from what Jean had seen. He was always covered in the thin layer of dust, with a few streaks of dirt across his cheeks or arms. But it didn't bother him. It suited the boy, really. He felt earthy to Jean, like he belonged to nature instead of the confines of society. He seemed so comfortable lying in the grass, surrounded by the green; it was as if he might sink in and become a patch of flowers. Pale, mysterious moon flowers, springing up all in one place, quiet beauty like that of the person who'd become them. Jean thought it would be a lovely sight, but one he'd rarely see.

In fact, he'd only seen them once, with his grandmother before she died. He was too young to remember much of anything about the woman, but he had that one memory. Walking hand in hand with someone he could barely claim to know, kneeling down before a shriveled stalk. He hadn't understood at the time why he'd been brought there. Not until they started blooming. Then he'd been filled with that childish delight, able to appreciate the beauty, the etherealness, through fresh, innocent eyes. Now, as jaded as life had made him, he'd likely miss it. They were just flowers, he reminded himself, not some otherworldly being.

Marco began humming lightly, drawing Jean from his thoughts. He didn't know the tune. Most of the songs he heard were hymns from church. It made sense that he didn't know it. Marco was from another plane of existence. His life didn't revolve around the word of the same God that Jean feared.

It shook him to the core as he thought that. Feared. He couldn't say, truthfully, that he loved his God. Was he supposed to? Other people did, and he could tell. The ones that sang the loudest to be heard over even the music, over the choir. The ones that held their hands up, as if the Lord was a tangible substance, something they could touch if they only reached high enough. Maybe they could.

But Jean didn't feel that love. He only felt fear, debilitating fear. There were so many rules, so many expectations, constructs that he had to fall into, lest he be declared a sinner. He envied Marco and his comfortable, easy beliefs. There was a stark difference between them; Marco felt accepted and loved by his gods. He went through life knowing they'd accept him for what he was, unconditionally. And, even if one didn't, another would. At least, that's what it seemed like.

Jean's God was not so forgiving. He was supposed to be, but how could he forgive so much? So many things could damn him for eternity. Repentance couldn't save Jean, not the way he wanted it to. Being around Marco just reminded him how wrathful his Lord truly was. Just being around Marco was a sin. The boy spewed blasphemy as if it were friendly conversation, spoke of gods other than God as if it were possible. Jean cringed, his body beginning to inch away slowly, even without his mind's permission.

He'd sinned, over and over, by coming to see this boy, by speaking to him. And he'd actively sought it. Was it too late, had he gone too far? Would he be extended forgiveness? If he left, right then, and prayed for the rest of his life, and never saw the Pagan boy again, could he be saved?

"You're scared again." Marco breathed, not asking, not belittling. It was just a statement. His eyes were still closed, and he didn't move as Jean sat up, looking down at brandy skin, spotted with freckles, warmed with sun but not flushed. Jean didn't reply, couldn't form the words.

"That's alright." Marco said, his eyes opening and his hands coming to rest against his stomach. "Everyone's scared."

Jean swallowed, watching big hands rise and fall with the breaths that Marco took. Marco's hands were bigger than his own. They looked worn, calloused, but still youthful. The boy himself was like that; Older than he should be for his age, yet still thriving in the remnants of his childhood. It was a strange juxtaposition that Jean had endless trouble trying to unravel. He only stared for seconds, and Marco let him.

He laid back down, breath shaky as he looked up at the clouds in the sky. No wrathful lightning struck him where he lay, no mob rushed him for his sins, not even a blade of grass showed him any contempt. His breath came as Marco's did. They both breathed, the same air, the same rhythm. And it was alright. Marco was a person, he needed air, he needed lungs, just like Jean. Marco was a person.

"You know, Jean, you don't have to share my beliefs to be my friend." Marco finally said after a silence that spanned minutes. And Jean's breath stopped coming as Marco's did.

He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps… Perhaps it wasn't as terrible as he thought. The world didn't stop when he lay back down. He received no wrath, in any form. Not even from Marco. Friends. Friends? Could they be? Is that what they were? He felt like they were less than friends, but also more. It was more than he could comprehend, yet Marco seemed to understand it, and so much more.

"Like I said, I haven't made a personal mission out of trying to convert you. All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy. I won't demand anything but that." He promised, sitting up. Jean looked at his back, a few crumpled blades of grass clinging to the fabric of his shirt. And he sat up too.

He still couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Friends? Friends. How could that one word mean so many things at once? Friends meant sin. Friends meant going against everything he'd been raised to believe. But it also meant tolerance for the things he'd be raised to believe. Friends meant someone who was willing to teach, but not demand. He could learn, but not commit.

But friends also meant time. Time spent, together, apart. Friends meant secrecy and anticipation. When would someone find out? When would his father find out? When would the Father find out? What were the repercussions? Friends meant punishment. Rejection, rebuke, banishment. Friends meant many things, too many things, and how could he agree to such a loose term?

Still, his heart wanted him to say yes. Friends meant companionship. Friends meant conversation, and understanding, and fun. Friends meant smiles, and laughter, and troublemaking, and learning. Friends meant Marco, tanned, freckled, smiling, and Jean, pale, spoiled, and afraid. But curious. Always curious.

He nodded, unable to think of the correct words, relying on gesture. It was enough though. Marco smiled, nodding as well. And he lay back down, shutting his eyes against the sunshine, not bothering with trying to elicit words from his companion. Jean wouldn't know what to say anyway. But it felt strange to him to have taken such a big step, yet to participate in nothing new. They were friends now, shouldn't that change something?

He remained upright for a while longer, watching the other boy breathe, watching soft breezes tousle his short bangs. And, still, it felt like Marco would dissolve into the ground. But he wouldn't be moon flowers. No. He didn't know why, but Marco seemed more like periwinkle. Had he been mistaken in his previous comparison? No… It had simply changed. No longer was Marco mysterious and unobtainable. He was a new friend, open, exciting. And Jean couldn't wait to get to know him.

He fell back, lying down as well at last. And he tried to think of all the people he counted as friends. The list was pitifully short, and even a little questionable. Any list with Eren Jaeger on it was questionable. If he had to count Jaeger as a friend to make himself feel better about the length of his list, then something was wrong.

But now there was Marco. And Marco, even in the scant time they'd been together, had been more of a friend than most of the people on Jean's list. Even though he was different, was Pagan, was everything Jean had been silently taught to hate, he was wonderful. He was calm, and understanding, and patient. And that was perfect. That was what Jean needed. He didn't even realize he needed it, but he did.

Maybe that was why he'd been unable to resist coming back. Maybe he knew, before he even knew that he knew, that he needed this. He needed this acceptance, this patience, this understanding. He didn't have to be anything when he was lying next to Marco. He didn't have to quote the bible after every sentence, didn't need to hide his fear, didn't have to censor his thoughts. It seemed that, even if he did, Marco would know better. He was intuitive to the point that it made Jean wary. Perhaps he knew Jean better than he thought. Or maybe he just knew people.

Because, truly, who knows people better than those considered lesser by them?

Marco began humming again, and Jean listened. The tune was another one he didn't know. It sounded sad, but hopeful. And maybe that was what Marco was. Sad, but hopeful; A song to be hummed among grass and wildflowers, heard only by the ears of a friend who was learning to be sympathetic. What kind of song would Jean be? Likely quick paced and dissonant, he decided. Unlike Marco, he couldn't think in any sort of order, his thoughts coming and going in panicked waves of uncertainty.

But Marco didn't seem to mind. He just continued humming, the steady tune steadying Jean's thoughts enough that he began dozing off, only realizing when the song ceased, and the sun was setting. He bid goodbye, going home, stunned. He'd spent hours laying in a bed of flowers and grass, listening to someone hum, not conversing, not accomplishing anything. But it didn't feel wasted, didn't feel worthless. It felt nice. He liked it. He liked Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wound up being sort of a bridge chapter. In a way, it's that strange point in time when a friendship becomes such in name. It doesn't really serve much more purpose than that, other than showing exactly how Jean's religion plays a part in his life.
> 
> For Jean, religion isn't something that betters his life. It's something that controls him to a degree that he can't overcome at this given point. I'd like to mention that this is not at all how religion is for everyone. Some people really do love what they believe in, and it teaches them a way to live their life that they feel is more rewarding. But Jean isn't there with his faith, and it's fear that keeps him faithful, rather than love.
> 
> I'm sure these little explanations I put in my notes are sort of unnecessary; people are clever creatures. But I also worry that my way of thinking and writing might not translate as well as I hope, so it gives me peace of mind to sort of sum it up in the end.
> 
> With that in mind, if you're ever confused about something, or just want to understand my thinking on a particular part, feel free to message me. I'd be happy to clear it up and talk with you about it. This story has sort of become my favorite, and I'm very invested in the universe, so I'm more than willing to help you get into it too!
> 
> Alright, time for me to call it good. My author's notes are always so long… Sorry about that. Just so you all know, the next chapter is a lot more eventful. More action, less thinking. Till then!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	4. Daffodils

They found something of a routine. Jean would get up early and help Marco with whatever chore he was in the middle of at the crack of dawn, then he'd return after he'd finished working with Levi. Sometimes he'd help Marco finish something, like herding the sheep or watering the crops. Other times they'd simply lay in the grass and talk. Sometimes they wouldn't talk, and would spend the time in silent companionship.

It didn't matter what they were doing, Jean liked it. Never had silence felt so comfortable to him, or conversation so easy. Once he got over his initial caution in regards to speaking, he quickly learned that Marco didn't care what he said. Even if Jean were to say something negative about Marco's beliefs, the boy would simply explain why Jean was wrong, and then let it go.

Still, Jean didn't bring religion up much around the other teen. Beyond his uncertainty in regards to Paganism, he also saw Marco as the only person he didn't have to be religious around. While faith was something he kept with him at all times, it was not something he wanted to talk about all the time. And Marco respected that, letting Jean pick whatever topic he liked.

But Jean started to learn what Marco was interested in. The boy liked flowers, and animals, and cooking. He liked to get his hands dirty, liked to plant things, liked to raise things. But he also liked to read, and daydream, and draw. There were so few things Marco didn't do that Jean found himself overwhelmed by the sheer number.

He always made an attempt to get Marco talking about something he liked. It wasn't always successful, but it was obvious when he'd managed it. Marco's eyes would light up, and his lips would move quickly with rapid words, his voice getting higher in pitch, his motions seeming almost fidgety. Jean liked it when he got like that.

Marco would always stop after a bit, very suddenly, and his face would flush as he realized that he'd started ranting. And he'd apologize, and change the subject, and he never believed Jean when he said he didn't mind. It was a nice friendship, nonetheless.

One day, Jean asked Marco about girls. And maybe that was his first mistake. Or maybe it was one of many. Maybe it wasn't a mistake at all, but, at the time, it definitely felt like one.

Marco brushed it off. Tried to, anyway.

"Ah, no, I'm not interested in courting any of the girls in town." He'd replied sheepishly, the middle knuckle of his first finger finding its way to his lips in what Jean had learned was his nervous gesture. It had his brow quirked.

"None of them?" He wondered, wiping his brow. He was in the middle of helping Marco move some fodder for the cows, and it was harder than he'd expected. Marco shook his head.

"No, none of them." He confirmed quickly, already returning for another armful. Jean looked at him with wonder and a bit of exasperation. He wasn't sure if Marco was lying, or was simply stretching the truth.

"That's too bad. You're pretty handsome, you know." Jean offered, not missing the red that flared across the tan boy's skin, spidering outward from his face like ivy, showing even on his neck. He refused to look back towards Jean.

"You shouldn't tease me. Even if I did like someone, they wouldn't reciprocate." Marco pointed out. "I'm not exactly the most pursued bachelor in town." He added. Jean shrugged, clapping his shoulder.

"You'll never know if you don't try!" He suggested, grinning. Marco rolled his eyes, thrusting another armful of fodder into the teen's arms.

"I know. Now hush, before I bring up Mikasa." He warned. Jean only smiled.

"Go ahead, bring her up!" He taunted, following Marco back towards the cows. The tan boy only sighed.

"That's another conversation for another day." He replied softly. The way he said it was offsetting.

"Why? Let's talk about her now." Jean pressed, dropping the dried grass. Marco frowned, looking at Jean as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth. Jean mirrored the expression, lips falling into a frown. "Hey, what's the matter? Do you not like Mikasa or something?" He inquired, watching Marco frantically shake his head.

"That's not it, Jean. I like Mikasa just fine. She's a very nice girl. It's just…" He began, trailing off. Jean groaned.

"Just?" He prompted. Marco sighed.

"It's just… I don't think it's going to work out between the two of you." He finally said. Jean's mind came to a crashing halt, staring at the other teen as if he'd grown a third arm. What did that mean?

"Why would you say that?" He questioned, gaze hardening. "Where did that even come from? You don't know Mikasa." He pointed out. Marco only looked away, brows knit together.

"I… It's just a feeling." He said, voice small and quiet. Jean only looked on in confusion.

"A feeling?" He repeated, as if for clarity. Marco nodded. Maybe it was stupid of him to get so worked up over a feeling. But, the thing about Marco's 'feelings' was that they were usually right. "What right do you have to make that assumption?" He demanded. Marco winced.

"I'm sorry Jean. I'm not going to take it back though." He replied. "I simply don't think that the two of you would work together. You aren't compatible." He explained. That only made Jean angrier.

"And how would you know?" He asked, voice rising. "Are you some kind of expert on this, all of a sudden?"

Marco didn't answer, looking down at his old, dirty shoes. No matter what Jean shouted at him, he wouldn't reply. And so, in a huff, Jean left. He ran home, ignoring his parents, locking himself in his room with his anger and uncertainty.

It was the first time he'd ever been mad at Marco. They got along so well, and he'd honestly believed that they would remain on civil terms for the rest of their lives. But Marco had said something so blatantly rude, so hateful. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, but the words stung at Jean's heart. And surely Marco, who knew of Jean's feelings for Mikasa, should have known that his words were unwanted. So why had he said them?

And, Jean had to wonder, why was he so affected by them? It was speculation at best. From anyone else, he'd have taken it at face value, would have laughed it off. But he considered Marco a close friend. He wasn't sure when they'd passed that boundary of acquaintances and entered this new level, but they had. And the words meant more coming from someone he was close to.

And Marco was always right. Not once had something the boy said not come to pass. Not once had one of his 'feelings' been off the mark.

But Jean was determined not to let the words deter him. In fact, they gave him a new sense of courage. After washing up for the night and eating supper, he vowed to see Mikasa the very next day. He hadn't visited in a while, and he thought it was about time he ask her to enter a true courtship with him. He'd prove Marco wrong.

When morning came, he went straight to Levi's home, getting to work early to distract him from the guilt of not seeing Marco. Surely the boy was worried about their spat the day before, and, honestly, Jean wanted to make up with him. But he had a point to prove, and he wouldn't see Marco again until Mikasa had agreed to court him.

When he'd finished with work for the day, he headed over to the Jaeger residence, tapping his fingers nervously against his thigh as he waited for someone to answer his knocking at the door. He nearly lost his nerve when it was Mikasa herself that answered, looking at him shortly before opening the door to let him in. She led him into the sitting room, making him some tea before sitting down.

"Where is everyone?" He asked, noting the eerie quiet of the home.

"Eren is with Armin, and Grisha took Carla to the market." She replied easily. He nodded, sipping at the provided tea, cup shaking in his hand a bit. He couldn't find words, and, eventually, Mikasa grew bored with his silence, sighing heavily.

"Jean," She began, putting her cup down. He gave her his attention. "I understand why you are here." She said, and his eyes widened. "I'm no fool; I realize that you seek my attentions." She informed him, not letting him drop his gaze.

"While I appreciate your fondness for me, I cannot say that I return it." She admitted, and Jean's heart sunk. "You are very charming, Jean, and you are nice company to keep when Eren isn't around. But I cannot say that I will ever think of you romantically. I'm sorry." She continued.

Jean deflated, the teacup finding its saucer with a too-loud clattering of china meeting china. Mikasa sighed again, folding her hands over her lap.

"It's not that you are not attractive in looks or personality. But I'm not particularly interested in having a relationship with anyone at this point. And I don't want to allow your affections to grow when I know I'll never return them. I am sorry, Jean, and I hope you'll understand." She finished. Jean could only stare at her for a long time, then he nodded shakily.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, that's your choice." He said, more for himself than for her. It was still sinking in for him, slowly, too slowly. He didn't know what to feel yet. "And, anyway, we're not… Compatible." He blurted, shocking himself with the words. They weren't his.

Marco's face flashed through his mind. The hesitance of the day before, the hurt and resignation as Jean yelled at him. The words. Marco's words. He was right. He was always right.

Mikasa only nodded, collecting Jean's teacup with hers.

"I'm glad you understand." She said, taking the cups to the kitchen. Jean sat, trying to remember how to think, how to use his limbs. He finally got up as she returned, and she walked him to the door. "I'm sorry that I can't return your feelings, Jean. But you can still visit." She added, giving him a small smile. "Like I said, you're fine company."

He nodded, walking out stiffly, legs moving as they pleased instead of in accordance to his wishes. He found himself at the low fence before he could even convince his mind to comprehend that he was moving. Marco was waiting, sitting in the grass near the fence, and he stood when Jean stopped in front of the wood.

They simply looked at each other for a long time, then Jean stepped over the fence, and followed Marco behind the house. And he fell into his arms, and squeezed too hard, and fought the tears stinging at his eyes. Marco said nothing, patting his back softly, letting him cry into his shoulder so that the rest of the world wouldn't be able to see. He offered no words of consolation, of sympathy. But nor did he point out that he'd been right all along, that Jean had been wrong. He just offered his silent comfort.

When Jean had finished, they went to the meadow again. Jean laid himself down in the grass, curling his limbs towards his body and closing his tired eyes. Marco remained near, but he moved about, almost circling. Jean didn't bother to open his eyes. It didn't matter what the boy was doing.

He dozed, the tears having made him groggy and lethargic. And he didn't care if he slept through dinner. He didn't care if he slept through the rest of his life, as long as Marco's presence was always there at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to wake up.

He stirred when he felt someone rubbing his back, lashes fluttering against the grass, lips smacking a few times as he forced his stiff body to stretch and pop. Marco smiled down at him when he finally rolled onto his back, eyes open. He yawned, which earned a little chuckle.

"Good morning." Marco cooed softly, as if speaking too loud would hurt Jean any more. Jean only grumbled a bit, sighing as he located the sun, already sinking toward the horizon.

"I should go." He pointed out, sitting up. Marco nodded, standing as Jean did. He walked him to the fence, but stopped him before he could go to the other side.

He bent over, taking a small bunch of daffodils from behind one of the fence posts, where Jean had been unable to see them. He was surprised, but took the offered flowers, staring at them. Marco smiled, shooing him away before he could ask any questions.

It didn't take him long to get home, and he had to make up some excuse as to why he had a bouquet. But he eventually managed to locate a vase, and filled it with water, taking the flowers up to his room. He placed them near the window, so they could get sun during the day.

Marco had taught him that all flowers had meaning. While he'd usually think it strange to receive flowers from another boy, it was different with Marco. He was using the flowers to say something he couldn't with words. But what could daffodils mean? They were bright, almost glowing. Perhaps they were to show sympathy, or to help him get his spirits up?

He'd have to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was technically supposed to update my EreMin story next, but I was just feeling this. Maybe it's the rosehip tea.
> 
> Regardless, here is chapter four. Once again, it might seem like not much happened, and I guess you could say that this also something of a bridge chapter. But if you really pay attention, you might notice something that's going to be very important down the road. Keep that in mind. Nothing in this story happens without reason.
> 
> So, just a heads up: I just found a place to live! We're signing the lease on Monday, and then we'll be moving in shortly after that! The reason that I mention this is because I'll probably be very busy with getting packed, and unpacked, etc. The place comes with internet, but it still might take me a while to get settled in enough to post again.
> 
> I'm going to have to work more to keep up with the rent, also. I'll likely be taking longer shifts, which means less free time. That's not to say I won't update, just try to have patience as I get everything sorted out. Once I get at least the basics set up at my place, I'll start getting chapters up again. I'd anticipate a few weeks wait. Thanks for the understanding.
> 
> So, I've gotten a lot of really great comments, and as always, I just want to say that I seriously appreciate them. It means a lot to me that you guys take the time to leave such thoughtful feedback. I was really scared that this story wouldn't really translate well with readers, but you have all been incredible perceptive of what I'm trying to convey. I'm so glad for that.
> 
> Alright, thanks for reading. As always, feedback is incredibly helpful, and I can never get enough. I love to hear what you guys think. And I'm happy to explain anything that might have you confused. Even if you just want to discuss something, I'm happy to do that too.
> 
> Off I go. I've work tomorrow, so I should probably get some rest. Thanks again!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	5. Day Lilies

In the end, he neglected to ask about the daffodils. He guessed that Marco wouldn't tell him, anyway. If he was going to give him a straight answer, he wouldn't have bothered with the flowers in the first place. No, he'd have to ask someone else what daffodils meant. But he couldn't think of anyone who would bother with knowing what each individual flower meant. He'd have to keep his eyes peeled.

In the meantime, he devoted all of the time he'd once spent with Mikasa to Marco instead. He used to visit the girl about twice a week, and now that it was clear she had no intentions of courting him, there was no real need for it. They could socialize at church.

Marco never brought up that another of his 'feelings' had come to pass. They always came to pass. Jean was beginning to wonder where on earth the boy had gotten his sense of intuition. He was a little jealous of it. If he was that good at guessing things, then he'd be a lot luckier in life, that's for sure.

But he was sort of scared to ask. What if Marco told him it was thanks to some sort of ritual he'd done? No, Jean decided he was better off not knowing at all.

On that particular occasion, he found himself treading through the tall grass, walking next to Marco at a lazy pace. Levi had given him the day off, much to his surprise when he got to the office. With a whole day and no responsibilities, he'd chosen to spend his time with his closest friend.

When had Marco earned that position? Who had filled it before? It seemed to Jean that, compared to Marco, no one had ever really been a close friend. What a strange thing to think.

Marco saw fit to celebrate Jean's day off, and somehow coerced a few of his siblings into taking over his chores for the day so he could spend the entire time with Jean. Once the tasks had been delegated, he'd beckoned for Jean to follow him back to the familiar meadow that they always spent their free time in. But he'd kept walking past it, jumping over the fence that signified what land belonged to him, and what land did not.

Jean hesitated, coming to a halt with his knees pressed against the thick beam of wood. Once upon a time, the fence had been the boundary between where he was allowed to go, and where he was not. He'd grown accustomed to breaking that rule.

But now Marco was outside of the fence.

He'd never seen Marco outside of the fence.

And suddenly the fence felt more like it'd been built to keep something in than to keep something out.

Marco turned, looking at him with a quirked brow. He didn't smile, but nor did he frown as he waited for Jean to make his decision.

"I'm not taking you anywhere that people would see us." He offered, a hint of sadness muddying the ale color of his eyes. Jean swallowed, internally berating himself for his fear. Marco's words had quelled it, but he felt a wave of disgust for himself. Because Marco had been spot on. Jean was scared of being seen with the other boy.

He wished he could say otherwise. He wished he could claim to be brave enough to walk down the main street, right past his own home, right past his father's office, right next to Marco. But he wasn't. He couldn't.

He stepped over the fence, following behind Marco as the darker boy began walking again. He watched the way Marco's legs carried him, as if they were used to taking this route. He watched the way Marco's shoulders and hips swung just a little to the pace of his steps. He watched the way Marco leaned just a little to the left when he walked. Because of the leg he'd broken as a child.

"Are you going to walk behind me the rest of the way?"

Jean jumped, Marco's voice startling him out of his reverie. He took a moment to decipher what had been said, then he quickened his pace to walk beside Marco again.

"Sorry." He offered softly, and Marco only smiled, a sort of melancholy smile.

They walked long enough that Jean decided they were out of the town's limits. But still, Marco kept walking, and eventually they came to a small forest. Jean looked at the tree line for a while, deciding that he didn't recognize it, and turned to Marco. But the other boy had already plunged in, following a path that he was clearly familiar with.

Jean bit his lip but couldn't keep himself from following. It crossed his mind only for a moment that maybe Marco was taking him so far away to do him harm. But he immediately shook that idea out of his head, ashamed he'd even thought it.

So caught up in self-hatred was he that he ran into Marco, who had halted in front of him. He backed off, looking up to make eye contact. Marco frowned.

"You're scared." He proclaimed. Jean's lips fell open in wonder. He didn't deny it. "You don't need to be. It's nothing bad, I promise."

Marco didn't seem as hurt as he should have. And that hurt Jean in turn. Had the boy come to expect Jean's fear of him, even after they'd become so close? He couldn't blame him.

They got back to walking, and Jean followed with more confidence this time, walking a little closer than he had before, as if that might make up for his moment of weakness, his moment of unwarranted distrust. Marco paid it no mind, even when their shoulders brushed a few times.

Their destination became obvious with the sound of rushing water. And, sure enough, Marco led them to a riverbank. The water stretched in either direction further than Jean could see, and the water was clear enough for him to see some fish swimming lazily against the current.

Marco sat down on a large rock, unbuckling the shoes he always wore and pulling them off, letting them fall next to him. His feet were a few shades lighter than the rest of him, but still darker than any part of Jean. His toes curled and uncurled against the rocky sand, and he sighed, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Jean watched, looking down at his own shoes. He hadn't played in a river since he was very young. Eren had convinced he and Armin that it was a good idea, and they'd jumped in. Jean couldn't speak for the other boys, but his own mother had been furious when he came home soaking wet, clothes and shoes ruined.

Marco looked over to him, smile still glowing, and laughed.

"Are you going to make me go swimming by myself?" He wondered, standing up and undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.

Jean sucked in a breath, looking down at his shoes again, the gold buckles shimmering in the sunshine. They were almost mocking.

As if in retaliation, he toed them off, leaving them next to Marco's. And then he got to work on his own waistcoat, having several more buttons to deal with. Marco was already taking down his trousers by the time Jean had gotten through them all. His breeches proved a lot more troublesome too. Marco stood in only his shirt, the fabric hanging loose now that it had been freed from his trousers.

He knelt down and helped Jean with his garters, stepping back to let Jean roll down his stockings. And then Jean hesitated, standing in only his shirt as well. Marco's fingers were already working at his own buttons, but Jean's only twitched at his sides.

He'd never been naked in front of anyone outside of his family. Even when he'd gone swimming with Eren and Armin, they'd all simply jumped in, clothes and all. But he was old enough to know that he couldn't do that.

Marco didn't seem to mind at all; He was already letting the fabric slip over his shoulders, revealing even more freckles and a confidence that Jean didn't possess. But he seemed to pick up on it, and he paused, looking over to where Jean was watching him. And he smiled, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders, and he approached.

Jean almost ran, but he managed to stay in place, and he looked up once Marco was before him. The darker of the two reached out, slowly undoing each button of Jean's shirt, carefully pushing them through the buttonholes until the fabric fell open. Jean's toes curled.

Marco let his own shirt fall first, then he coaxed Jean's over his shoulders, catching it before it hit the ground and letting it fall onto the pile of Jean's other clothes instead of in the ground.

Jean's breath was a sharp intake, but he didn't reach for the security, letting it come in the form of clenched fists and closed eyes. He thought he could feel Marco's eyes all over him, silently laughing at his paleness, at his obviously wealthy upbringing. He was a spoiled boy, and he knew it, and he sometimes wished he knew a harder life. A life more like Marco's.

But when he opened his eyes, Marco was nowhere to be seen at all. He blinked, head snapping in either direction as his eyes sought out the familiar form. His ears located his companion first though, a soft splashing that drew his eyes in the proper direction. He'd looked just in time to see Marco surface from the water, already several feet away from the bank.

Doing his best not to hesitate anymore, as it was proving a fruitless thing that day, Jean stepped into the water, walking forward a few paces and gasping when it got suddenly deeper, his feet meeting no purchase where he'd expected it. His limbs instinctively began to flail, as if that might help him.

Marco swam to his side, pulling him back a bit till his feet found sand again.

"You can't swim." The larger observed, and Jean felt a blush bloom across his cheeks.

"Not well." He agreed, toes curling against the strange sensation of the fine rocks, almost silky under the water. Marco smiled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back to where the bottom dropped off, sending Jean into a frenzy for a moment. Then he realized that Marco was easily keeping him afloat, and he calmed down, focusing instead on moving his limbs productively.

"I've taught plenty of my brothers and sisters to swim." Marco announced, kicking rhythmically underneath himself, legs brushing Jean's on occasion. Jean flinched every time it happened. "I don't see why I can't teach you."

And so he did. It seemed almost hopeless at first, seeing as Jean was prone to panicking as soon as he was released, but he eventually worked up the coordination to go back and forth between the two banks. He wasn't nearly as good as Marco, but at least he wasn't at risk of drowning anymore.

The mountain water started getting to him a little after the hottest part of the day. The sun had painted him red, and the cold water chilled the burn to the point that he was shivering, so Marco shooed him out onto the bank, chasing him into the grass where they both laid out, letting the sun dry them off. Jean knew he'd regret it, but he was already burnt, what harm could a few more minutes do, really?

Marco got up first, and he disappeared into the trees somewhere, moving too fast for Jean to even try following behind. He instead found some shade, picking up first his, then Marco's clothes and moving them to the spot he'd chosen. He slipped his shirt back on, doing up some of the buttons, but he got bored with it part of the way through, so the top buttons remained undone.

When Marco returned, he dropped a whole armful of flowers in Jean's lap, giggling happily, as if he'd accomplished something grand. Jean quirked a brow, looking down at them. They were all the same kind of flower; Lilies. But they weren't tiger lilies, like he'd given Mikasa. These ones were yellow and orange, bright and vibrant, similar in coloring to the daffodils he'd been gifted before.

"Are these for me?" He asked, gathering them into a neat array while Marco shoved his arms into his own shirt, nodding. Jean couldn't help a small smile.

"Just in time. Mother made me throw out the daffodils just yesterday. They'd wilted something terrible." He confided. Marco grinned, flopping down next to the other boy and helping him gather up the flowers. Once they were all organized, Jean put them aside, leaning against the tree he'd picked for shade and heaving a sigh.

"What do these flowers mean?" He asked. "And the daffodils. You never told me." He recalled. As expected, Marco only shook his head, his smile going coy. Jean sighed again, shrugging.

"I guess I'll have to ask someone else, then." Was his eventual reply.

They basked in the sunlight for a while, then Marco beckoned him into the forest where they picked some berries. Jean had never tasted them fresh from the bush, had never had the chance to pick them. They were incredible; Sun-warmed and just a little sour from being picked early.

It wasn't until the sun began dipping towards the horizon that they reluctantly returned to their clothes and put them back on, walking back along the path they'd taken that morning. Jean's shirt, however fine the linen, felt scratchy against his fresh sunburn, and the few ruffles seemed almost heavy. Even more so when he called his goodbye to Marco and headed for home by himself, hopping the fence with a bit of difficulty, considering how many flowers he was attempting to carry.

He was determined not to leave a single one behind. And he'd thus far been successful. He dropped a few at the door in his attempts to get it open, but he came back for them after he'd retrieved a vase and some fresh water.

Again, he was questioned on the origins of the flowers, but his mother was sated when he said he'd received them from Mikasa. It was a bit strange for a girl to give him flowers, but it was a much more acceptable explanation than the truth.

"Oh, her affections are growing!" His mother squealed with pride, kissing his cheek as if he'd given her a wonderful gift. "First daffodils, and now day lilies! And so soon!" She chirped.

Jean's brows knit, and he grabbed for his mother's hands.

"What are you on about?" He asked. She giggled gleefully, kissing his cheek again.

"Oh Jean, I couldn't possibly tell you! Maybe you should have paid more attention when I was telling your young ears." She cooed, pulling her hands away and dancing towards the kitchen. Jean watched her go, looking back at his flowers in confusion.

She'd said 'affections are growing,' but that was her thinking in regards to Mikasa. If Jean mentioned they were from a male friend instead, would the meaning change? Surely so. And maybe he was overthinking it… After all, affections could be friendly. His mother was known to blow things out of proportion, so this was probably a case like that.

"Jean?" She called, poking her head out of the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him skeptically. "Why are you so red? Did you get a sunburn?"

He stiffened, fist clenching subconsciously at his side.

"Uh… Yeah." He admitted, eyes dropping to the golden buckles of his shoes again. They still seemed mocking. "Levi had me looking around town most of the day, so I was outside for hours. You know, looking for anything story worthy." He lied, stomach sinking. Lying was a sin. But telling the truth would have been even more dangerous.

His mother smiled wryly, returning to the kitchen.

"He'll make you a journalist yet." She called. "Just don't tell your father I said so." She added, laughing. Jean tried to laugh too, the sound half-hearted but enough to fool his mother. He retreated quickly to his bedroom, setting the flowers down and staring at them as if demanding answers, as if they could explain away his confusion and worry.

The flowers, of course, gave him none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I'm in the middle of moving out, and school just started up, so life's been a bit hectic, to say the very least. I'm starting to get settled in, but I've still got a lot to do. Still, I felt bad leaving everyone in the dark. So I'm trying to get some updates up while I have the opportunity.
> 
> This chapter is a bit more lighthearted, or so I hope. And a bit more interesting than the bridge chapters. I didn't realize, when I was writing them, that the previous two were sort of uneventful. But you know how writing goes; One chapter at a time.
> 
> It's been mentioned to me in a comment that I ought to put the meanings of the flowers in the ending comments. (I haven't had time to respond to comments yet, and am about to have to give my roommate the internet for a bit.) And I totally understand where that is coming from, but I think half the fun is looking it up and learning something new. But if that's not really your thing, most, if not all, of the flowers are eventually explained in the story, at some point. It's still worth looking, though. You'll have a better idea of what's going on much earlier on if you do! That's up to you guys though!
> 
> I've got to wrap up, but I want to go ahead and establish a tag on tumblr. You never know when that'll be useful, you know? So if you guys want to post anything related to this story, from questions to feedback, or even fanwork (maybe someday, if I keep wishing on the stars) you can tag it with "fic wwfg" and I will see it. And if you want to just find me on tumblr and be friends or something like that, I'm the same there. Just KuroRiya.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the support thus far, you guys have been absolutely fantastic! I'll try to update again soon, and respond to your comments! Till then, feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> KuroRiya
> 
> 九六りや


	6. Forcythia

Church had never felt so stifling. Sure, it was always bothersome to get up early Sunday morning, to put on his nicest, stuffiest clothes, to walk in his tightest, pinchiest shoes all the way to the church. But what made it particularly unbearable on that particular July morning was that he had to pass by Marco without acknowledging him.

He couldn't wave. He couldn't smile. He couldn't walk over to the fence, couldn't hop over it, couldn't walk to their meadow and lay in the grass for hours. He had to look at Marco, who was out getting eggs, and then look away. He had to force a sneer onto his face, just like the one his father wore. Just like the one everyone around him wore.

It hurt. He didn't have to look to know that Marco was feeling the hurt too. He'd never been out while Jean was heading for church before. He couldn't even watch as Marco returned to his home with haste, not turning back to look at the procession of people heading for their weekly sermon. He heard the door close, though. He wished he was behind it.

He was shoved in between his father and his neighbor. She smiled at him, lifting her arms up as the small choir started singing. Her voice was terribly off key, and he could smell her sweat when she lifted her arms. Was she touching God up there? He wondered.

The air was hard to breathe. It was sticky already with summer humidity, and then they continued to fill it up with hymns and prayers. The words were thick, laden with meanings that Jean suddenly found he was having a hard time understanding. The words filtered into his ears like he was underwater, the sound warped and more confusing than it ought to have been.

His father looked down at him, a sneer pulling at his lips as he looked upon his son. He wasn't sure if he was flushed from heat or if it was just the remnants of his sunburn, but either way, he was sweating like… Well, a sinner in church.

He fanned himself absently with his hand, feeling literally no relief from the action but pretending like he did. It was better than sitting idly. And he tried to focus on the preacher, on what he was saying. He'd heard it a million times, they all had, but he needed to appease his father. He needed to appease everyone.

He mumbled amen when everyone else did, he stood when it was time to stand. And, when it was all over, he walked home with his mother and father and spent the day doing nothing, as was his job. Laying in his bed, the once-cool sheets warming with his body heat and making him even hotter, he wished that he could be with Marco instead. It felt like a waste of time to sit in his stuffy room, but he wouldn't be able to sneak out without being questioned about his intentions. It was easier to just pretend that everything was as it always was on a Sunday.

But by midafternoon, he couldn't take it anymore. Making some excuse about taking a long walk, he scurried off, taking the least visible route he could think of to get to the Bodt house. He knew everyone was in their house, lounging, just waiting to catch someone not doing the same. So he tried his best not to be seen at all.

When he got to the right property, disoriented at first by coming from a different direction, he hopped the fence. He was near the meadow, yet unable to see the house in much detail. But he knew Marco wouldn't mind him letting himself in, and he walked with purpose.

He yelped when he tripped over something, stumbling into the tall grass. Whatever he'd tripped over yelped too, and he scrambled to get himself upright so he could see what exactly he'd walked into.

A pair of earthy eyes stared back at him, freckled limbs stretched out across the grass. His hands were busy nursing his side though, likely where Jean had walked into him.

"Hello, Jean." He offered, wincing even as he tried to smile. Jean blinked, then sat down next to him.

"Hi, Marco." He returned, lying down. The sun had moved enough that it wasn't directly in his eyes, and he was able to find shapes in the clouds as they lapsed into silence. Jean could barely hear Marco breathing, but it was a nice sound, soothing even.

"How was church?" Marco finally asked, turning his head. Jean barked out a laugh.

"Hot." Was all he mustered. Marco chuckled, stretching his arms towards the sky.

"That's why I'm out here. It was too hot in the house, with all those children running around." He lamented. Jean scoffed.

"You don't count yourself among the children?" He wondered.

"I'm technically a man." Was the reply.

They lapsed into silence again as Jean considered that information. He'd never asked how old Marco was. It hadn't ever really mattered.

"When is your birthday?" He questioned. Marco smiled, hands falling back to the ground. His fingers brushed against Jean's.

"June sixteenth. I turned nineteen." He offered. Jean hummed in acknowledgement.

"Sorry I missed it."

"And I'm sorry I missed yours. You'll be eighteen next April, right?" Marco said, as if he wasn't sure. Jean knew better.

"How did you know that?" He wondered. He didn't recall ever mentioning that.

"I listen." Was all that Marco said.

It was quiet again, and they returned to staring at the clouds. Jean could still feel Marco's warm fingers against his own, but he didn't dare move his hand away. He didn't want Marco to take it the wrong way. He didn't mind touching Marco. Not anymore, anyway. He wasn't scared.

At some point, Marco rolled over onto his side, using one arm to prop him up, the other resting against the grass, still barely brushing against Jean's knuckles. He looked over Jean's face, smiling brightly.

"You're still red." He observed, and Jean felt his face get even hotter.

"You're still freckled." He retorted. Marco laughed, his nose crinkling.

"And always will be." He agreed, sobering a bit. "We Bodts die freckled."

Jean grinned too, imagining Marco, almost exactly the same, but with white hair. Still covered in freckles. That made him laugh just a little. Marco chuckled along, even though he couldn't possibly know what Jean pictured.

Even when they calmed down, Marco's smile stayed in place, tugging at the very corners of his lips, as if that was an easier expression for him to maintain. Smiling was always tiring for Jean.

His eyes, the color of rum again that day, fell downward, and Jean thought he was tracing over different blades of grass. It seemed he'd theorized wrong though, for in the next moment his eyes were drawn to the same place. Marco's fingers had danced along his own, and now they rested nearby, curled as if unsure of what they should do.

Jean looked up, but Marco wasn't looking at him, eyes still trained on his hand. And he looked there as well, his own fingers twitching now. He suddenly felt restless, like he needed something to occupy his hands with. So he ripped up a few blades of grass, but that brought him no relief.

Marco lay back down on his back, heaving a sigh. Jean tried to distract himself with the clouds again. But now all he could think about was Marco's hand. His big, tanned, freckled hand. Not even an inch away.

He got a bit of a start when he felt the fingers he'd been thinking about wrap around his own. It was a slow motion, each one carefully sliding into place until his hand was trapped beneath Marco's. But it wasn't forceful. He could easily pull away. And his mind was telling him that that was exactly what he needed to do. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, they were holding hands.

But his body wouldn't listen. He just sort of froze up, lying still as Marco sighed next to him. It sounded almost happy. He wondered why.

Marco squeezed, and Jean felt his stomach leap. It felt like fear. But it was different. Just a little.

Marco didn't say anything, and Jean couldn't get his mouth to cooperate. He was left instead to think about what exactly it was he was doing. He knew they were holding hands, but refused to acknowledge what that meant. It was like his mind was actively trying to block him from coming to any sort of conclusion.

But eventually the sermon started to filter its way into his mind. They'd spoken about these sorts of feelings just that morning; The devil himself was trying to sway him to sin.

He leapt away from Marco as if he'd been burned, eyes suddenly wide and frantic. Marco stared at him, holding his gaze until, in a panic, Jean bolted for the fence, legs not slowing in their sprint until he was gasping for breath on his front porch. He took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. Just in time for his mother to come out, concern lacing her features.

"Jean?" She called, startling him to the core. He took a step back, eyes going wide yet again, as if she might suddenly lunge at him. She did no such thing, brows knitting instead with worry. "Jean?" She repeated.

Realization snapped him to attention, and he immediately tried to make himself presentable.

"S-Sorry mom." He offered shakily. She looked him up and down, eyes seeking out an ailment. When she found none, she frowned.

"Take a moment to calm down." She warned. "Then come inside. Dinner is nearly ready."

He could have cried with relief that she hadn't asked any question. He was fortunate that it hadn't been his father that came out to see what had him so flustered. His mother could be reasoned with. His father's belt could not.

Once he'd caught his breath and the flush from his run had died down, he went inside, washing up for dinner and saying the prayer with his family, as he always did. He tried his best to ignore his father as the man blamed the scorching heat on the Bodts. Jean wasn't sure how he'd come to the conclusion that the two were even remotely related, but he was too afraid to say so.

When the meal was over, he retreated to his room, shutting himself inside and praying he wasn't bothered again for the rest of the night. Inside, he headed for his bed, but halted as his eyes were attracted by a bright splash of yellow. He turned to the flowers, his hand tingling where it had touched dark skin. He retraced his steps, joining his mother in the kitchen where she was washing the dinner dishes. He could smell the tobacco from his father's pipe, and knew that he'd be in the parlor to smoke. That meant he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Mom." He said softly. She jumped, turning to him.

"Oh, Jean, you startled me!" She laughed, returning promptly to the dishes. He sidled up next to her.

"Sorry. Um…" He paused, searching for the words. "You remember those flowers I brought home?" He began. She nodded. "Well, I know you said that you couldn't tell me what they mean…" He trailed. She halted, turning slowly to look at him. He looked away.

"Look, I know you want me to figure it out for myself, but I don't know who else to ask." He admitted, turning back to her hopefully.

She stared him down, then sighed.

"Oh, alright." She huffed, picking up another dish and scrubbing. "Day lilies are a flirtation." She explained. Jean swallowed harshly.

A flirtation? Like holding hands. A flirtation.

"T-That's it? There's no alternate meaning?" He hoped. She shook her head, and his stomach fell a little.

"And… And daffodils?" He whispered. She tutted.

"Well, that depends on the situation. They can mean that the giver feels sympathy for the recipient, or that they feel their love is unreciprocated. So you'll have to determine which one it was for yourself." She barked. He flinched, backing away from the counter.

She watched him carefully, eyes narrowed as he slowly retreated, stumbling when he ran into the table.

"Jean?" She said, motherly concern lacing her tone. His lip trembled.

"U-Um, thank you." He offered, making a break for his room. He banged his shoulder against the frame of his doorway, but even that would not slow him down. He hissed against the pain, otherwise ignoring it as he shut himself in once again, eyes flying once more to the flowers. They were the same as when he'd left them, still vibrant yellow and orange, still lilies, still a flirtation.

He approached, letting the pads of his fingers dance along the petals, each one feeling like a soft caress of Marco's hand against his. But each one also felt like a thrashing with his father's belt. Each one felt like a pair of eyes staring at him as he walked down the street, murmuring slurs even worse than 'pagan' or 'witch.'

With unwarranted anger, he grabbed the entire vase, storming over to his window, still gaping open in hopes of letting in a breeze, and his arms got as far as thrusting the entire vase out, but he hesitated, hands trembling where they felt the weight of all the gorgeous, still-fragrant lilies.

He tried again to let them fall. Vase and all. But it was like the damned thing was glued to his hands. He couldn't pry his fingers away.

With a frustrated groan, he pulled them back in, glaring at their overwhelmingly bright petals, hands still shaking as he sat the vase back down on his table. He collapsed in his chair, running his hand down his face.

"What am I doing?" He asked aloud, voice shaky. His fingers came up to subconsciously trace the contours of each petal. And he found he didn't have the energy to stop himself. All he really had the energy to do was fear, and anticipate.

Jean was headed down a dangerous road, and he was well aware of it. He should have realized it sooner. Maybe he had, and he'd just denied it. He knew that his friendship with Marco was not accurately named. He'd known from the beginning that they weren't friends. They were more. They were less. They were something else entirely. He knew that. He'd ignored it.

He'd known that Marco sought more from him than just company. It was obvious in the way his eyes would find Jean automatically, even before Jean knew he was coming over, Marco's eyes would be on him. It was like he sensed it.

It was obvious in the way that Marco lingered in any touch, even the smallest brushing of arms or shoulders. In the way he held the egg basket just so that Jean would have to almost hold his hand to get it. In the way that he'd stretch just enough that they wound up closer together in the grass.

It was in the way his eyes, the color of good alcohol and life shone every time he looked Jean's way.

He'd ignored it. He'd ignored everything.

Unable to deal with anything in that moment, he threw himself into his bed, pulling his sheets over his head, ignoring the heat that threatened to choke the life out of him. Maybe that was for the best.

He buried his face in his pillows, inhaling his own familiar scent. It was just a little sour. He needed to air out his bedding. He tried to keep telling himself that, to distract himself. It wasn't working. All he could think about was Marco. Marco who had talked to him. Marco who had been his friend. Marco who had taken him swimming. Marco who had given him flowers. Marco who had held his hand.

Marco.

Marco who wanted more than friendship.

It wasn't even the fact that he was Pagan. Sure, that was a problem, but it wasn't the biggest problem. No. The problem was, Marco was a boy. A man. If he was seeking Jean's affections… That made him a sodomite. And Jean knew what Christians thought of people like that. Knew what his father thought of people like that.

If there was one thing that Joan Kirstein hated more than the Pagans, it was the homosexuals. Often, over dinner, during parties, even around the fire when Jean was young, he'd tell the story of the time he'd led a lynch mob and dealt with one such sodomite. He was proud to describe how unrecognizable the man's face had been when they finally took pity and hung him.

They'd left the body to dangle from the big tree on the main road. Right near the post office. Everyone saw it. No one dared take it down till it was putrid and close to rotting.

Jean retched at the mental image. He'd been fortunate enough not to be alive yet, but he could imagine. He could picture the body, sturdy from work, but still powerless under so many angry hands. He could smell the burning flesh, could almost taste the coppery flavor of blood that would be on the air. And he could see the gaping wound that might have once been a face. He could see where part of a jaw had once been. He could see one eye left, whiskey brown and frozen open in terror. He could see a white shirt, cheap linen ripped, one arm unaccounted for. One buckled shoe was missing too. Only one brass buckle, fighting against the dirt and blood coating it to gleam in the sunlight.

And he could see the freckles. So many freckles. More than he could count.

He cried out, sitting up and panting, looking about his room frantically. It was dark. When had it become dark? What time was it?

He leapt up, still clothed from his day, and ran for his door. Then he was down the stairs and out the front door, not even stopping when his mother, candle in hand, tried to question him. He ran for the post office, as fast as he could manage, collapsing in the street once he'd arrived.

Nothing. There was nothing in the big tree. Only leaves.

He cried, holding himself as he leaned against a barrel. He tried to stay quiet, lest someone hear him. But still, his wails were too loud. He knew it. But he was too relieved to stop.

When his sobs had been reduced to soft hiccups, he forced himself to his weary feet, trudging back home. There was a candle in the window, flickering, waiting for him. He sucked in a breath of air, pressing forward. His mother was upon him immediately, worry overtaking her usually kind features. She pulled him into the parlor, and there was his father, smoking his pipe still.

His father looked up, and looked at his son harshly.

"Where did you go?" He demanded. Jean froze, words caught in his throat.

"T-To the post office, sir." He replied, his words betraying his mind's desperate need to lie.

His father quirked a brow. A seemingly innocent but incredibly dangerous gesture.

"And what on earth for, boy?" He inquired. Jean swallowed with much effort, toes curling nervously in his shoes.

Lie. His mind begged. LIE.

"To see the hanging tree." He answered, frame quivering. Joan watched him for a long moment, then a grin found his lips.

"A worthy trip." He announced, heels of his shoes clicking as he stood. They had gold buckles. Just like his belt. Jean flinched when his father's hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't ever forget what that tree is for." He whispered, passing Jean and heading up the stairs. With a worried glance between them both, Jean's mother followed.

Jean stood, stunned, unsure of what he'd learned that night. What, exactly, did his father know? How would he ever find out?

With a shudder, he went up the stairs, letting himself into his room. He was just about to lie down in his bed again when he realized something. His room was different, somehow. Something was wrong. He paused, looking about.

His eyes found his table. It was clear. Nothing on it. Not a single petal.

He blinked, approaching it, as if the table might be playing a trick on him, as if his eyes were. But no matter how hard he looked, the flowers were nowhere to be seen.

His heart fell into his stomach, and he looked at the window. It was still gaping. And he walked over, looking outside, first at the stars, then at the ground.

Below lay the shards of the vase, the lilies crushed from impact with the ground. They looked like they'd been stepped on, too.

Breathless, he pulled his head back into his room, shutting the window and crawling into bed. The house was silent, dark, and yet… He felt cramped. As if, somehow, there were eyes on him every second. He'd never felt that way before, but one thing had become clear.

Joan knew.

What he knew, Jean didn't know. Maybe he knew little, maybe he knew everything. Regardless, Joan knew too much. And Jean felt fear even greater than that he held for the Father. For his own father had proven much more frightening than God on so many occasions. Jean felt threatened, he was scared.

But the thing that scared him the most, even more than his fear of his own father, was that he was not afraid for himself.

He was afraid for Marco.

And what did that mean? Did that mean that, without even realizing, he'd come to return the boy's feelings? Did he want more than friendship from Marco too? Was he really willing to forsake his own soul for love of another man? Well…

Damned if he did.

Damned if he didn't.

The question was, what sort of damned did he want to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had time for a long author's note, but I have to get myself to work, I'm afraid. This chapter is the longest one out of 15, if I'm not mistaken. And I think that's because a lot happened, huh? Well, I feel that way, but maybe you guys don't. It's hard to think of this in the terms of someone who doesn't know as much as I do. Such is the bane of every writer's existence.
> 
> So, the day lilies got a lot of attention last chapter, and apparently caused no shortage of confusion. They've been defined here, but for future reference, I go to buzzle's list of flowers with meanings and pictures for my definitions. You're welcome to look that list up, or you can use any one that you want. I was surprised at how well other meanings from other sites could be applied to the story as well.
> 
> Alright, I really do have to get going. If there's anything else you'd like to discuss, you're welcome to ask about it or bring it up in a comment/review. I do reply to all of those, to the best of my abilities. And, if you feel inspired, or just want to say hello, you can tag things for this story with fic wwfg on tumblr. Till next time!
> 
> KuroRiya
> 
> 九六りや


	7. Carnations

Jean found himself too afraid to see Marco again for several days. He went to the trouble of taking the long way to get home just so he wouldn't have to face Marco. It felt pathetic, especially since he couldn't figure out for the life of him what exactly he was afraid of. Was it dealing with Marco and his feelings, or was it the fear that his father would somehow find out, that he somehow already knew?

Regardless, Jean's own need of the boy's company eventually brought him back, lingering awkwardly at the fence. He wasn't sure if he was welcome anymore. As if he'd been waiting, Marco opened the door to his house, head coming out first to stare at Jean for a moment. Then his body followed, and he shut the door behind him, walking over to the fence. It was a slow pace, and Jean wondered if that was because Marco didn't want to see him, or if he was giving Jean the chance to run if he wanted to. Maybe it was both.

When Marco was before him, everything Jean had planned to say escaped him. He only stared, probably gaping a little. And Marco waited, holding still, not making any movements until Jean did. He began walking, straight to the meadow, and Jean followed wordlessly. It wasn't until they'd sat down among the wildflowers and tall grass that either of them spoke.

"…Sorry." Jean breathed. There was so much more that he wanted to say, so much more he needed to say. But nothing else would come out.

Marco didn't seem to mind, only nodding. For once, he didn't offer his sunny smile. But he didn't look angry, and that in itself was a comfort.

Already feeling relieved, Jean let himself fall into the grass, comforted by the familiar smells and sounds that surrounded him. For a moment, he forgot his fears, comforted in the thought that no one could see them when they were buried in such tall greenery.

And so, when Marco's hand sought his again, even more cautious this time, he let him hold it. He squeezed the long digits, filled the spaces between them with his own. Marco's hand was warm, and he hadn't realized that, in the past few days, he'd been feeling pretty cold. Even in the July heat, he had a constant chill, deep in his bones. And now it was gone.

They didn't speak again until hours had passed, and Jean announced that he needed to get home. Marco let him go, getting up to walk him to the fence. After hopping over it, Jean turned, and they exchanged one last glance before he headed for home.

In the days that followed, their routine returned mostly to how it had been. Jean would come in the morning to help with the early chores, and then again when he got done working for Levi, staying as late as he could.

The only thing that really changed was how they behaved around one another. Now, when they went to the meadow to pass their time talking, their hands remained linked between them. When Jean helped Marco fetch the eggs in the morning, his hand would linger against Marco's as they traded the basket between them. When they snuck off to the river to go swimming again, he didn't flinch when Marco's legs brushed his.

He didn't dare bring flowers home again. And Marco somehow knew better than to give him any bouquets. But after nearly a week of their revised routine, it seemed Marco couldn't help himself anymore. On his way over the fence, Marco grabbed Jean's hand, not letting it go until Jean had a grip on a single white carnation.

With a quirked brow and a grin, he turned back, looking at Marco expectantly.

"Will you tell me what this one means, or do I have to ask my mother again?" He wondered. Marco only smiled coyly, waving.

Jean barked a laugh, then went on his way, twirling the stem between his fingers and admiring the white petals, nearing full bloom. His good mood followed him all the way to the front door, then his heart slid directly into his stomach, no longer held aloft by fluttering butterflies of pleasant nervousness. No, that had quickly been replaced by a crippling fear.

Was his father home? What would he say if he saw the flower? What would he do?

He bit his lip, stuffing the flower into his waistcoat as delicately as he could while still being inconspicuous. Figuring that was the best he could do, he took a breath and opened the door.

A sigh of relief escaped when it was only his mother home, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, surprising her with a quick peck to her cheek. She nearly jumped out of her skin, but then giggled, shooing him out of her kitchen when he stuck his finger in the filling of the pie she was working on. He cackled as he shuffled out, licking the cherry off of his finger before heading for his room, placing the carnation across his headboard.

Nothing in his room had been disturbed since he'd found the broken vase, but that didn't mean that his father wasn't going through his things on a daily basis. Jean honestly wondered about it, but he didn't own anything incriminating, so it wasn't really an issue, more of an annoyance.

But now he had this flower. He could only hope that, seeing as it was a single bloom and therefore less obvious, that it would be left alone. It wasn't as if he could carry it around with him. And, beyond that, who's to say he didn't pick it himself? There was no reason for Joan to believe that it was a gift from the Pagan boy.

Still, he knew better than to ask his mother the meaning this time. No, that might have been his downfall last time. He'd just have to find someone else to ask, or simply live with not knowing. As long as it made Marco happy to have given it, then Jean was happy too.

He washed up, making sure no blades of grass stuck to his clothes, then he joined his mother in the kitchen once again, for once being a good child and helping her cook dinner. Of course, he also used the opportunity to steal bites when he thought she wasn't looking. She was always looking. But she didn't really mind, he could tell. She was probably just glad to have company.

They were just finishing when Jean heard his father's heels clicking against the front steps, and he stiffened, retreating from the food and hastily taking a seat at the table. If his father saw him cooking… Well, that was a thrashing he'd rather avoid.

When Joan made it to the kitchen, he sniffed appreciatively, taking a moment to kiss his wife and shoot his son a look, then his footsteps could be heard going all the way up the stairs and to his washing basin.

Jean sighed when the man was out of sight, shoulders stooping as his finger traced patterns in the wood of the table for lack of better things to do. His mother offered him a sympathetic glance, rushing to finish as quickly as possible, lest the man of the house come down and find he had to wait.

She finished making his plate just in time to set it down as he pulled a chair out and took his seat. Then she made Jean's plate, and finally her own. Then she sat, and they all said grace, and finally got to work on the meal. It was good, and Joan even complemented the potatoes, in a roundabout way. Jean did his very best not to grin with the knowledge that the potatoes had been his own doing.

After dinner, his mother sliced the pie, giving him a wink as she handed him an extra-large slice, and he beamed, scarfing it down fast enough that he nearly didn't taste it. Nearly.

Once everyone had finished eating, he tried to excuse himself to his room, but he was halted.

"Stay, boy. Let's all talk in the sitting room for a spell." His father suggested, and Jean halted, dread washing over all the good-food feelings dinner had given him. But, knowing better than to disobey, he followed his mother and father into the parlor, planting himself in one of the uncomfortable but stylish chairs his father insisted were in good taste.

His mother took a seat next to his father on the matching loveseat, and she reached for her needlework, getting to work while Joan cleared his throat.

Instead of talking, though, he set to work on lighting his pipe, inhaling the smoke a few times before finally picking his topic for the evening.

"Those damn idiots are trying to tell us how to run the town again." He seethed, and Jean perked up. This was one of the only things he and his father ever agreed on.

"Are they trying to sell here again?" He wondered, and Joan nodded.

"I've told the bastards to kindly take their damnable slave trade elsewhere, but they don't listen to me. Only the mayor can make them listen, and the man hasn't got any backbone or political skill to speak of." Joan elaborated, taking another puff of his tobacco. "I only barely managed to stop them on their way into town this morning."

Jean frowned, and his mother tutted.

"Isn't the mayor against it too, though?" Jean recalled, and Joan nodded.

"Of course he is. But the man has about as much courage as a wild rabbit." He complained. Jean was about to comment again, but Joan cut him off. "Too pathetic to even run those damned Pagans out of town." He hissed.

Jean's vision got a little blurry, and he deflated. Usually he'd blindly agree with his father's opinion. It was better than trying to argue his own. But…

Lie!

"I-I don't know…" He began, swallowing.

LIE!

"They've never hurt anyone or anything." He mumbled.

It was silent for a moment, and then Jean could practically feel his father's claws sinking into him.

"What was that, boy? Are you defending those witches?" Joan demanded. Jean winced, not having heard them called witches in a while. It was a bold accusation, especially considering the stories from Salem had only recently stopped coming their way.

Keep your mouth shut. Don't answer!

"T-They… They aren't…" He whispered, but he didn't get to finish.

"Dear Lord, boy! Has Satan gotten to you too?" Joan snarled, and Jean did everything in his power to sink into the chair, to make himself small.

"N-No." He stuttered, finally able to get his words to cooperate with his mind. "I just…"

"Just what? Out with it!" His father bellowed.

Jean could feel his eyes stinging, his limbs already curling in towards his body, as if they were anticipating a blow, as if they knew they would be needed for protection.

He couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing that wouldn't induce a beating, anyway. So he simply remained quiet, trembling minutely, eyes darting to his father's waist and back to the floor a few times. He'd managed to avoid punishment for a record amount of time. Had his luck run out?

To his relief, Joan simply scoffed, refilling his pipe and lighting it again.

Some of the tension in the room dissolved, and it seemed to Jean like he could breathe again, though he couldn't remember when he'd stopped in the first place. Regardless, he did his best to make vague comments until he was finally excused to go up to his room for the night.

Once he was in his room, the door shut and all of the tension gone, he stripped away his clothes and slipped into bed, looking up at his headboard to check that the carnation was still there. He allowed himself a small smile when it was, and he let his eyes close, content to know that he'd escaped a beating, and would be seeing Marco in the morning. Maybe he'd even have time to hold his hand for a bit before he had to report to Levi.

Only if he got to sleep soon enough to wake up early.

And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people were interested in Joan, to my surprise. Usually antagonists are mostly just hated and not thought of beyond that. But I'm glad that you're all interested in his dimensions, even if they aren't exactly good ones. There will be more development with him, but you can see some in this chapter already, or at least, so I hope.
> 
> I'd like to once again thank you all for all of the wonderful feedback. I can never mention enough how happy it makes me to see your lengthy comments, and I'm always happy when you guys actually want to talk about things. Like, seriously, I'm happy to hear your thoughts and interpretations, and I love to give you mine as well.
> 
> You've truly been a wonderful readership so far, and I'm lucky to have you guys. Someone's even working on fanart for me at the moment, and I'm super excited about it! It's looking amazing so far! I'll be sure to post a link when it's finished.
> 
> I'm tracking the tag "fic wwfg" over on tumblr, so if there's anything you want me to see, post it there.
> 
> Anyway, I have some things to do, so I'll call it a day here. Thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. Until the next update!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	8. Hemlock

It dawned on Jean one day, while they were laying in their meadow, fingers laced and skin sun-warmed, that no one ever bothered them in the meadow.

"Marco?" He called softly, earning a quiet noise from the other boy to show he was listening. "Why are we the only ones that ever come out here?" He wondered. Marco rolled over, letting go of Jean's hand so that he could prop himself up on his side. But his other hand was quick to cover Jean's, squeezing softly.

"This is my space." He replied easily, as if Jean should understand. But he didn't. Marco smiled. "We all have somewhere that we love to be, and we sort of claim it as our own, in a way." He elaborated.

"Oh… Sort of like a bedroom?" Jean offered. Marco's eyes lit up, and he nodded.

"Exactly! There are so many of us that none of us have our own rooms." He explained. Jean's own eyes only got wider.

"R-Really?" He prompted, and Marco nodded again, thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of Jean's hand.

"I share my room with two of my brothers." He admitted. Jean gaped. "It's really not that bad. But the lack of privacy does start to get to us sometimes. So we all have a place that we go to when we want to be alone. This is mine." He continued. Jean looked around, wondering exactly how much of the meadow was 'Marco's'.

"That's not to say that no one is allowed out here, they just know that if I'm out here, I don't want to be bothered." He added.

"Oh." Was all Jean could think to reply. It amazed him how well the Bodts functioned as a family. Even though there were so many of them, they somehow managed to get by, and to be generally cheerful. He'd met a few of Marco's siblings in the time that they'd been spending together. And with the exception of shy little Nardo, they'd been mostly friendly and outgoing people.

If he had so many siblings, he'd probably hate them all. He'd probably yell at them all the time. Especially if he had to share his room. He couldn't even imagine not having a place to isolate himself when he needed to.

But the Bodts, despite their numbers and their tight quarters, appeared to get along well. They all knew their responsibilities and took care of them without complaint. And they worked well around each other. Even if they were working in a small space at the same time, they could somehow maneuver around each other wordlessly. Jean had already been impressed by it a few times.

Regardless, he was glad that they all knew not to snoop around when he and Marco spent time among all the grass and flowers. He was comforted all over again by their little slice of privacy, glad they had a place to be together without having to worry about what people saw or what they'd say.

He was even more thankful for it when Marco tactfully scooted closer, hand leaving Jean's only to place itself on his waist instead. Jean's breath hitched.

Marco was so close now. He could smell him. Cinnamon and dirt and sweat and flowers. He smelled like life. Jean wondered what his own scent was like. No expensive cologne could make him smell half as good as Marco did.

He knew he should have been afraid. And maybe, in a couple hours when he was on his way home, maybe the panic would set in. Maybe he'd realize what a sinner he was, how damned he was. But in that moment, he couldn't stop himself from burying his nose in the collar of Marco's shirt. He couldn't stop himself from lifting one of his arms and draping it over Marco's waist in turn.

The last time he'd felt so pleasantly content to be in someone's arms had been when he was very little. Small enough that his father didn't whip him for cuddling with his mother. It had been so many years since he'd felt a true embrace. He'd get a hug from his mother on occasion, when they thought they could get away with it, and a stiff half-hug from visiting relatives that he didn't really know.

But Marco was warm. Jean could tell that Marco meant so many things with just the small gesture. It wasn't stiff, it wasn't unbearable. It was just comfortable, easy, and warm. The good kind of warm, not the stifling, mid-july, heaven-take-me-now sort of warm. No. Jean wished he didn't have to go home that night. Even the evening chill would be nothing as long as he was cradled close to Marco, so close he could hear his heart beating in his chest.

So comfortable was he, surrounded and enveloped in everything that Marco was, that he'd dozed off at some point, only waking when he felt something insistently poking at his nose. He tried to ignore it, but eventually the sensation elicited a sneeze, and his eyes blinked open wearily afterwards, shooting a narrow-eyed glare in Marco's direction.

The other boy gave him a stunning grin, tactfully placing a flower against his cheek. Jean blinked, shaking his head till it fell off. Then he sat up, realizing too late that Marco had nearly covered him in different flowers, and they all fell into his lap as he righted himself.

"Is this what you did while I was asleep?" Jean wondered, voice a bit gravelly from his nap. Marco giggled, nodding.

"You looked really nice." He offered, picking a few petals out of Jean's sandy colored hair. Jean scoffed, laying back down, ignoring the minute weight of all the plants in his lap.

"What are all of these?" He inquired, picking one of the blooms up and twisting the stem between his fingers. Marco got settled next to him, grabbing one of the flowers for himself, prodding gently at its petals.

"That one is gardenia." He replied, nodding to the one in Jean's hand, smiling. "These are lobelia."

Jean nodded, looking at the pretty purple flowers. Where had Marco found all of these? He'd never seen them before.

Marco's face sobered as he picked up the last kind, looking it over, his lips pulling into just the smallest of frowns.

"And this… This is hemlock." He said.

Jean looked at it, wondering why it'd garnered that reaction from Marco. If he didn't like the flower, then why on earth had he picked it? The name sounded sort of familiar though.

"Just… Don't take this home. Or eat it." Marco warned. "It's poisonous." He added.

Jean yelped, stumbling to his feet and hastily brushing all of the flowers off, hemlock, lobelia, gardenia and all. Marco watched him, not commenting. That would explain why he'd heard the name before.

"Why on earth would you cover me in poisonous flowers?" Jean demanded, suddenly feeling very awake and very concerned. Had Marco lost his mind? Marco only smiled softly.

"Only the hemlock is poisonous, and it won't hurt you, as long as you don't eat it." He promised, tucking it behind his ear as if to prove a point. Jean blinked, looking down at the boy incredulously for a moment, then he settled back down with a sigh.

"Honestly," he breathed, picking a few of the flowers up, feeling bad for knocking them all to the ground. "You couldn't pick normal flowers?" He asked, knowing that it would go unanswered. And, he realized, the answer was obvious.

Marco couldn't pick normal flowers, because flowers spoke to Marco. It was like a language that Jean didn't know, but spoke volumes to Marco. He'd bet that Marco could have a whole conversation spoken only with blooms. In fact, he was pretty sure that was exactly what was happening now. But he didn't speak in the same tongue, so he couldn't decipher what the boy was telling him, and wouldn't know unless he found a translator.

He made sure to commit the names to memory, just in case he ever did find anyone who knew. Gardenia, lobelia, hemlock. He could only hope he'd remember that.

Marco had picked poison flowers because they meant something important enough to him to accept that risk. That only had Jean burning with even more curiosity, and he decided he'd make a point of asking people around town.

In the meantime, though, he needed to get home. Marco walked him to the fence, fingers brushing for only a moment in what they both secretly wished could have been a prolonged gesture. Before Jean could go, Marco grabbed his waistcoat, carefully sliding a stem into one of the buttonholes. This one was white, resembling a rose, so… Gardenia. Jean was proud to have remembered. And glad it wasn't poisonous.

He offered the other boy a smile, then a short wave, and was on his way home. The feeling of Marco's heavy arms still lingered on his ribs, as if his body itself was recalling it, but it wasn't a bad feeling. And the panic he thought he'd feel hadn't reared its head yet, thankfully. It probably would when he saw Joan, but that hopefully wasn't for another hour or two. Maybe he could remain this content until then.

He was happy to find his father nowhere within sight upon getting home. But his mother cut into his glee, requesting that he make a trip to the market to get some groceries she needed. He grumbled, but did as he was told, turning around mere seconds after coming through the door and heading for the main street.

His home wasn't far away, so he was in the market soon enough, looking down at the short list his mother had written for him. He started with the vegetables, then went for the meat. He was talking with the girl behind the counter, having explained what he needed to her father. He'd talked to her a few times, when she wasn't busy eating. Her name was Sasha, if he remembered correctly. They were an odd family, but excellent hunters and butchers, so no one bothered them too much.

In the middle of something she was saying, she stopped, eyes dropping to Jean's chest. Finding it strange and a mite unsettling, Jean followed her gaze, realizing he'd never taken the flower out of his buttonhole. Before he had a chance to scramble to do so, Sasha gave him a coy smile.

"Looks like someone's got himself an admirer." She laughed. He flushed, biting his lip, seeing no real point in taking the flower out now. "That's what gardenia means, anyway." She added.

Jean froze, looking at her in wonder.

"Wait, you know what flowers mean?" He questioned, and though obviously taken aback by his sudden interest, she nodded.

"We used to live out in the woods, so I had to learn about plants anyway. Mama taught me what they meant." She explained. Now Jean was excited.

"Do you know them all?" He demanded.

The poor girl was obviously bewildered, and probably worried about Jean's mental state, but she didn't say anything on that matter.

"I know quite a few." She offered with a shrug.

"Alright, then what does lobelia mean?" He asked, visualizing the purple flowers. She snickered, covering her mouth with her hand. Jean quirked a brow. "What?"

"Ah, sorry. Someone really gave you lobelia?" She wondered. He huffed, nodding. She only snorted once more. "Well… Whoever they are, they were calling you arrogant." She giggled.

Jean frowned, brows knitting. Arrogant? Marco was calling him arrogant? Well, alright, maybe that was fair. And, knowing Marco, he didn't actually see it as a bad quality. The boy was too sweet to see anything as a bad quality.

Well, that was two out of three. Now for the poisonous one.

"Fine. What about… He… Headlock?" He tried. The girl before him was clearly confused, and he racked his mind again, hoping to recall the proper word.

"Um… He… Heylock… Hew… Henlock?" He tried. Still, her face remained uncertain. Then it seemed to dawn on her, and her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline.

"Hemlock?" She guessed. Jean nodded quickly, glad she'd known what he meant. But then he became concerned, for her face fell to one of worry. She bit her lip for a long while, looking about.

"They… Gave you hemlock?" She inquired. Again, he nodded.

"Yes. I know it's poisonous, but only if you eat it. I just want to know what it means." He said, hoping to quell any fears she might have had. But her face only fell further.

"I…" She stopped, worrying her lip again.

Now Jean was getting worried. He wished she'd just spit it out already, but she began fidgeting instead of answering.

"I… I really don't think… If she really gave you Hemlock…" She trailed, finally looking back up at him. "Are all of these really from the same person?" She asked.

"Yes. Daffodils, day lilies, and a carnation too." He added.

"Well…" She began, expression unchanged. "It seems that she likes you quite a bit." She said, voice careful. "But… She's also scared of… Um…"

As if the answer to her prayers, her father returned with what Jean had asked for. Since he didn't want to be on the butcher's bad side, he decided he'd leave it at that. He still shot the girl a confused look, but she had clearly resolved not to say anything else on the matter.

Jean finished his shopping, the girl's sudden discomfort and avoidance of the topic settling discomfort deep in his stomach, the pleasant butterflies he normally had after leaving Marco being overtaken by truly concerned ones. Why had she reacted like that? Did hemlock mean something bad? And if it did, why would Marco have given it to him?

When he got home, he sat the groceries on the table, going up to his room to replace the wilted Carnation on his headboard with the Gardenia, then he laid out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling above. If only answers to his questions were written there.

He didn't come out of his room until he was called for dinner, and he tried to get through it as quickly as he could, making the excuse that he wasn't feeling very well to make sure he wouldn't have to sit in the parlor and listen to his father. It wasn't a lie, really. He wasn't feeling well. It was just stretching the truth.

When he got into bed after washing off and putting on a shirt, the flower fell from his headboard, hitting him in the face. He sighed, picking it up and holding it at length, simply staring at the white petals for several minutes.

What an odd mix of flowers he'd received this time. An admirer was a good thing. Being called arrogant wasn't exactly an insult to him, not anymore. He'd been raised to be that way, and he knew it to be true, so it didn't sting. It was just an observation. And then… Hemlock. He didn't know what it was, but it was bad. Why? What was Marco telling him?

Maybe he'd never know. Marco wasn't going to tell him, and clearly Sasha wasn't either. He was too scared to ask his mother, so he was stuck in this frustrating state of not knowing. It was something he'd just have to get used to. That, or he'd have to start taking lessons.

He'd settle for not knowing. Perhaps it was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this one was tough, mostly just because I'm so sleepy. Spanish class has me pretty haggard. But here's the next chapter, my lovely readers. I'm glad to hear that you're all so enraptured. That truly means so much to me. I can't even describe to you. I'm still super excited about this story, which is surprising, because I usually lose interest after a certain point. But this one keeps me coming back.
> 
> To be honest, I usually blabber at you guys a lot more, but I think I need to get to sleep. I'm surprisingly tired. Just a reminder; You can tag anything related to this story with fic wwfg, and I will see it. There's already a fanart in there, thanks to the lovely flamerebel! And Illien-Chan over on Devi is working on one too! I'm soooo excited! Thanks much to those guys, seriously.
> 
> I'll do links next time, promise. But for now, I must find my bed. Till next time~!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	9. Ragged Robin

Jean had never paid Levi much mind. Well, no more mind than he was due; Jean treated him as his master, as any good apprentice would. But beyond that working relationship, he didn't think about the man much.

In fact, he didn't really know much about him. He knew that he was a very strange, intimidating man, despite his stature. There was just something about him that kept others out of his business. No one ever really asked about him, they just quietly speculated among themselves. It seemed almost ironic, considering the man's profession, but it was almost fair to say he was the most mysterious figure in town.

Jean came to find out why, much sooner than he had anticipated.

He'd worked harder than usual in a bid to finish earlier. And he had, much to his delight. It was important that Levi let him go home early. For once, it was him that was going to give Marco a gift. But he had to make sure he had enough time to work up the nerve to take it out of his bag in the first place.

Luckily, Levi waved his hand dismissively towards the door a full two hours early, and Jean said his goodbye, quickly taking his leave. So glad was he that he entirely forgot his bag, only realizing when he was in sight of Marco's fence. With a low groan, he turned on his heel, changing his pace from one of leisure, to a near-run. Now he was running behind.

He let himself in when he reached the familiar post house, looking about the small workspace for a moment before locating the forsaken object. After picking it up, he checked the contents, then shouldered the bag, turning around and walking back towards the door.

It was a sound that halted him. It came from the other room, where Levi's office of sorts was. The door to it was just barely cracked, like someone had attempted to close it, but had been too distracted to make sure it actually latched. Jean's eyes darted that way, recognizing Levi's voice. But the sound it had made was confusing. Was he hurt? Frustrated? It was so hard to understand Levi.

Deciding he needed to check, just in case something horrible was happening to his employer, Jean tip-toed over, pushing the door just enough that he could peer through.

He wished he hadn't.

He didn't recognize the other man, at least, not from behind. But he recognized the act. After all, he'd been taught that it was a terrible sin. One of the worst. He'd know it even at just a glance. But he received more than a glance, and knew he'd never be able to look at Levi again without seeing him lain out across his desk, naked and moaning.

It was sinful, the very definition, and it frightened Jean to his core. His mind knew it was wrong, yet he couldn't bring himself to hate, and that was the most frightful thing he could imagine. No matter what he told himself, he'd always come back to the conclusion that Levi must have loved the man. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't seem to convince himself that the love the two men must have shared was incorrect.

He bolted from the building, sprinting for Marco's house blindly, not stopping even for a moment, not even to explain himself to obviously concerned neighbors. By the time he'd leapt over the fence and raced to the meadow, his heart was pounding so loud in his ears that he barely heard Marco call his name.

The freckled boy wore his concern on his face, sitting up from where he'd been staring up at the clouds, looking up at Jean instead. He tried to read the expression, tried to understand what was going on beyond the obvious panic.

Before he had a chance to get very far, though, Jean collapsed next to him, trembling as he tried to make himself small. Marco frowned, pausing for just a moment before inching closer, moving slowly as he pulled Jean against him, practically cradling the other in his arms.

He didn't speak for a long time, just letting Jean calm down in hopes that he'd be ready to talk afterwards. He instead offered comfort with gentle touches, petting Jean's hair and embracing him tightly. Not until his shaking had subsided did Marco even bother with words.

"Jean," He began, feeling the one in question wince at the sound of his own name. Marco pressed on though.

"What happened?" He asked, returning to carding his fingers through Jean's sandy hair, ignoring the sweat that had begun to gather at his scalp.

Jean didn't respond, merely shaking his head. But he remained against Marco's chest, his fingers eventually coming up to twist in Marco's shirt. So he waited again, gently rocking them back and forth until Jean pulled away. His eyes were red-rimmed with tears he hadn't cried, but it was proof enough that he was upset by whatever had happened.

"Jean." Marco said, voice low. He didn't say anything else, and that in itself was a comfort of sorts.

It was nearly an hour before Jean could speak, and even then, it was a slow, very broken conversation. Several times Jean would find himself unable to find the right words. But once he'd explained what he'd seen, he felt a lot better. Especially when Marco just nodded, reaching out and gently pulled Jean along as he lay down in the grass. It was a shaky motion, but Jean eventually let his head fall against Marco's chest, ear pressed against him, listening to the beating of his heart. It was slow, rhythmic, and it helped him steady his thoughts.

"What about what you saw scared you?" Marco asked after a long lull of silence. Jean's eyes flicked upwards, then back down at the grass. He took a deep breath of Marco's smell, letting the earthy scent dull his lingering panic.

"I…" He began, thinking on it for a moment. "I don't know." He admitted. But Marco shook his head, hand coming to dance across Jean's back, rubbing at a few tense spots that he found.

"You do know." He reprimanded, waiting patiently for Jean to think through it again.

And so, Jean did. Marco didn't say a word while he tried to find the words for his emotions. He'd never really been very eloquent, at least not in regards to what he felt. He'd been taught, from a very young age, that no one cared or wanted to hear it.

But Marco wanted to hear it.

"I suppose… It scared me because… I didn't…" He trailed off, searching again for the words he thought he'd found. "I didn't… Hate them." He finally managed. Marco didn't reply, and Jean didn't elaborate.

"Jean, could you explain what you mean?" Marco finally questioned. Jean swallowed, able to follow the path as every muscle in his throat worked to get it down.

"…I know that I'm supposed to hate them. What they were doing… It's a sin!" He reasoned. "I know that I should be angry at them, and that I should be disgusted. But…"

He seemed unable to finish, again, and Marco squeezed him in something akin to an embrace.

"But?" He prompted. Jean's toes curled.

"But… I… I don't." He admitted. "I don't hate them. And I… Well, I know it's wrong. But it doesn't really feel like it is." He added. Marco nodded.

"And that scares you?" He inquired. Jean nodded, the motion shaky.

"Shouldn't it?" He asked. Marco's hand paused against his back, but quickly returned to its patterns.

"Well, Jean, that's up to you." Marco finally replied, sending a new wave of confusion coursing through the paler boy. "According to what your religion teaches, yes. What you saw is wrong." He admitted. Jean felt something cold drip into his heart, and the chill seemed to seep into his blood. Never in a lifetime would he anticipate a response like that from Marco.

"But," the freckled teen continued. "That's only one way of thinking." He added. Jean actually felt like he could sigh in relief. This was the part that he needed to hear. "I'm sure you know, but yours is not the only religion in the world. There are almost as many different beliefs as there are stars in the sky. Each of those religions has a different way of seeing things. And even people within and without of the different religions can have entirely different ways of interpreting different situations and events." He continued.

Jean shifted so he could look up at Marco, but the other had his eyes on the sky again. Still, Jean's gaze lingered.

"As far as I'm concerned, they're free to do as they please. It's their business. Beyond that, I believe that love, in any form, is beautiful, and it should be treasured." Marco explained. Jean stiffened. He'd never heard Marco's opinion on the matter, but it was positively blasphemous. Yet it sounded so innocent, so reasonable.

"Not everyone in my family agrees. My parents grow lax as they age, but some of my older siblings wouldn't be very happy about my views. They would respect my opinions, but they'd also make theirs known." He clarified, finally looking at Jean. "The difference between me, and you, is this: My family would still love me, even if I told them." He said.

Jean had to calculate the meaning. He would have been mad about what Marco had insinuated, but he couldn't be. He knew it was true.

If he told his father that he thought that sodomy was acceptable, he'd likely be thrashed within an inch of his life. Or maybe Joan wouldn't stop there. Even if he did, chances were that he'd be locked up in his room, lest he attempt to spew such profanity again, in public. Or he'd be sent away. Regardless, the outcome wouldn't be good, in any sense.

If Joan even caught wind of the position that Jean was in at that exact moment, he'd likely leave enough bruises to have Jean sore for a few weeks. But he couldn't bring himself to pull away from Marco, too comfortable enveloped in his warmth and scent. It was enough to keep his fears at bay, at least for the time being.

After several minutes of quiet, Marco sat up, hefting Jean up with him. He patted the smaller boy's back softly, other hand coming up to brush some grass out of Jean's hair.

"My mother made some jumbles." He murmured, standing up. He offered Jean a hand, which the other took, standing up a little wobbly. "Would you like some?" He wondered.

Jean realized that he'd never eaten anything that came out of the Bodt house. It seemed like some unspoken boundary that he hadn't been ready to cross. But after all the emotions he'd been forced to deal with, sweets sounded heavenly.

He nodded, following behind Marco towards the house. But he stopped just short of the door. Marco waited a moment, as if to see if Jean would follow, then disappeared inside, coming back out a few minutes later with several of the promised treats in hand, and a cup of milk.

They went around to the other side of the house, sitting with their backs against the wall, and Marco passed most of the cookies to Jean, who got to work stuffing them into his mouth. His mother had only made jumbles once, and then his father had proclaimed them poor man's sweets, and she hadn't made them since.

But, compared to the bland taste of macaroons, Jean much preferred these. They were obviously sweetened with something, probably honey. He'd already had two before he remembered the milk, taking it when Marco handed it to him. He took a little drink, then handed it back, returning to the sweets while Marco had his turn with the milk.

If it had been anyone else, Jean would have commented on sharing the milk. He hadn't shared a cup since he was young. But he found he didn't really mind, if it was Marco.

After finishing the snack, Jean found himself in better spirits. He was still a little bothered about what had transpired, but he felt better after talking with Marco, and the food was just enough to give him the feeling of pleasant fullness.

Marco took the empty cup back into the house, then he took Jean's hand, and they returned to the meadow, walking past where they usually spent time, sitting on the back fence instead. Jean could barely see the house from this distance, which was just as well.

They stared at the sky for a while, Marco still holding onto Jean's hand, their fingers carefully laced. Then Jean remembered the entire reason for all of the day's misfortunes.

"Oh." He breathed, extracting himself from Marco and walking back to where they'd been laying earlier. He found his bag and carried it back to where Marco was waiting. "I forgot. I brought you something."

Marco looked down at the bag, then up at Jean.

"You didn't have to." He promised with a small smile. Jean shook his head.

"You're always giving me things, so now let me try to return the favor." He requested, opening the bag. His nerves were, of course, acting up. But he realized that if he didn't just get it over with, he'd probably end up postponing it indefinitely. Trying not to let himself freeze up, he fished around in the bag until his fingers encountered what he was looking for.

He pulled, and the fabric slid out without too much fuss. Marco looked at it with surprise, at first not recognizing the article. Then his eyes went wide.

"Jean, I can't-" He began, but Jean was having none of it.

"It's too big for me anyway." He argued, thrusting the shirt into Marco's hands. "It's been in my chest for ages, and I haven't been able to use it. And I know you wear the same one every day. It isn't costing me anything to give it to you, so please take it." He insisted.

Marco pursed his lips, fingers subconsciously testing the fabric. It was higher quality than he'd ever even been allowed to look at.

"I really-" He started. Jean held his hand up, silencing him again.

"If you don't take it, I'm burning it." He threatened.

Admitting defeat, Marco carefully folded the shirt, looking down at it almost reverently as his fingers trailed over it again. Jean smiled, closing his bag and letting it fall to the ground. He put the shirt on top of it, seeing as Marco was apparently reluctant to put it on the ground.

"You have to wear it." Jean warned. "Don't just put it away or something. That's not what shirts are for."

Marco pouted. He actually pouted. Jean had never seen that expression before, but he quickly decided it was one of his favorites. It made him look younger than he'd ever seemed.

Jean laughed, sliding down until he was in the grass again, pressing his back against the fence for support. Marco followed, somehow managing to put his hand over Jean's without even looking down. Jean turned his hand over so that he could fill the spaces between Marco's fingers with his own, and his head tilted slowly until it came to rest against Marco's shoulder.

They watched a breeze dance through the grass and wildflowers, imitating the motions of waves, then Jean felt a hand at his jaw. It moved slow, carefully angling his head up until he was looking into brown eyes. He had enough time to pick out seven different colors before his fear sank in and he pulled away, still looking into those eyes from a greater distance.

He was glad that Marco didn't seem hurt by the rebuke. His expression really didn't change, he simply held Jean's gaze. It was almost painful how slowly he moved closer. Jean could count several seconds for each centimeter, but his mind raced too fast for him to make sense of what exactly he was doing, what Marco was doing.

Brown eyes held amber until Marco's lashes, after fluttering for a moment, closed. Jean snapped out of his reverie, but a second too late. Already Marco's lips were pressed to his.

The kiss was light, short, barely more than a small peck. Each motion was slow, big, leaving Jean room to flinch away and flee. But, even as his stomach churned with unease, and his mind screamed at him to leave and never return, his lips wouldn't shy away from the other's, not the second, third, or fourth time they met.

When it became apparent that Jean wasn't going to run, or that he was too frozen in fear to even do that, Marco moved closer, gently circling his arms around Jean's waist, letting his hands rest against his hip. Jean jumped just a little, his breath more of a shudder as he forced himself to stay still as Marco kissed him again.

It felt nice, having barely-chapped lips pressed against his own. It made his heart race, and left his mind so foggy that he had a hard time paying much mind to his anxiety. Still, he knew, almost instinctually, that he was doing something very wrong. As much as he wanted to slot his lips against Marco's, as right as it seemed, he knew he wasn't supposed to.

What if someone saw? What if Joan saw? They were outside, in broad daylight. Anyone had a chance of seeing.

But then, no one had seen them before. The meadow had always been a sanctuary, and he knew, somewhere deep down, that it was still serving that purpose. He knew his mind was desperately trying to think of reasons why he shouldn't be closing his eyes, why he shouldn't be clinging to Marco's shirt and craning his neck. But it was too late for him anyway.

It was clear that he wanted to, and that in itself was enough to damn him. What more damage could be done by indulging? He was already too far gone to bother with it anymore.

Marco pulled away just as Jean decided that he didn't care anymore, and he made a noise as he lunged forward to steal another kiss. Marco smiled, hands cupping Jean's face as they moved their lips together again for a moment. And, even when he pulled away again, they remained there, forcing Jean to look at him. But Jean was done with shying away.

Eventually, Marco let his hands fall, and he reached for Jean's far hand, lacing it with his own. The other wrapped around Jean's hip, pulling him closer, close enough that Jean could feel Marco's heart pounding in his chest, and he again let it sooth him, let it calm his thoughts.

And, when the sun began its descent, he got up and walked home, steps sure, even as he passed Joan smoking in the parlor. Even as he sat to dinner, and listened to Joan commenting on the wickedness of the town. Even as he lay in bed, hand reaching up for the flower he'd left, fingers brushing the soft petals just before he let the sounds of crickets and frogs drifting in from the window lull him to sleep.

And when he got up the next day to go to work, he faced Levi with a new sense of camaraderie and understanding, albeit unbeknownst to his employer. All he thought about all day while he organized documents was how much he was looking forward to kissing Marco again.

Damned or not, he was tired of being scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lost any self-control I might have had in regards to this story. It hasn't even been a full four days since I updated, but gosh, I can't stop. Chapter 17 is intense, and now I just want to get to it! But this chapter is definitely important too, if you guys can't tell. (I'm sure you all noticed)
> 
> This chapter does mark a huge step forward for our two boys, but it actually sets a lot of other things in motion as well. You'll know what I'm talking about a few chapters down the road, I promise. I'll leave it at that.
> 
> For a small update in regards to me, personally; I got a new job! It's still in the food industry, but I'll be making about double what I have been. It might be 40 hours, but that's definitely worth a cushy lifestyle. I'll be able to afford things! I can buy food! As long as I pass the physical exam, which is on Tuesday, the job is mine. And I should, hopefully, not have any trouble with the exam.
> 
> The extra money would seriously help with the whole living on my own thing. And the travel goals. I might actually get to go to Italy next spring! Fingers crossed on that one.
> 
> Alright, so, I mentioned some fanart last time, but was too tired to give you guys a link. Pathetic, I know. But here is a link to the story's first [fanart](http://flamerebel.tumblr.com/post/97291313989/already-feeling-relieved-jean-let-himself-fall)
> 
> If there's anything that you want me to see in regards to this story, be it art, questions, concerns, or just some feels you're having, you can tag it there and I will see it!
> 
> Alright, I'm going to try to accomplish something else before my shift, so I bid you farewell for now! Thank you guys, as always, for reading and for all of the feedback. You really keep me going, so thank you for that.
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	10. Ambrosia

Jean sort of started to understand why people made such a big deal about kissing. He'd never really comprehended why everyone else his age went to the trouble of sneaking around in order to indulge with whoever they fancied. But, as soon as he was able to do it with Marco without the risk of a small panic attack, he found he very much enjoyed it.

Marco was always warm in his arms, and always happy to oblige. He never said anything. He didn't ridicule Jean for being unsure about the whole thing, for letting his fear linger though he'd promised himself he'd leave it behind. He wasn't smug that he'd won Jean's affections. He didn't point out that Jean was damned now, that he was directly going against his own religion.

No, he'd just stop whatever he was doing, carefully snake his hands around Jean's waist, and hold him just long enough for them to press their lips together. Then he'd let go, and get back to work, almost as if it hadn't happened. But the wave of nervous happiness that Jean felt afterwards made sure he knew that he never imagined it.

It helped his courage a lot that he was met with no repercussions. Ever since he'd found his vase of lilies smashed below his window, he'd been wary that Joan knew more than he let on. Yet, Jean was getting so brave as to kiss Marco at the gate, albeit after looking both ways to make sure that no one was watching. And despite this, Joan never appeared to be any the wiser. He continued smoking in the parlor, continued complaining about things that weren't going as he wanted them to over dinner, continued yanking him out of bed way too early on Sunday to go to church.

Nothing changed.

And that was what gave Jean the confidence he needed to lay against Marco's chest in the late-afternoon sunshine, frequently craning his neck to steal kisses. It seemed that Marco always knew exactly when Jean wanted one, for he would always turn down just in time to catch the other male's lips with his own. Then he'd simply go back to staring at the clouds, like he always did.

"Do you talk to clouds too?" Jean wondered, realizing too little too late that his question most likely seemed out of place to someone who wasn't following his train of thought. But Marco took it in stride.

"No, not really. There are a few types of fortune-telling that rely on clouds, but I'm not much interested in fortune-telling." He replied. "Clouds are simply nice to look at."

Jean nodded, glancing up that way as well. They were indeed a nice sight to behold.

"Don't you ever bore of them?" He asked, and Marco smiled wryly.

"That's like asking me if I ever bore of you." He said, and Jean scowled.

"I'm only as interesting as clouds?" He demanded. Marco's chest rumbled with laughter as answer.

Jean opted to let it go, instead busying himself with finding Marco's hand and lacing their fingers. He liked the way that Marco's calluses felt against his own scrawny fingers. But his own hands were starting to get sturdy as well, from all the work he helped Marco with in his spare time. Of course, it wasn't even half as laborious, but he'd manhandled a bit of hay since he'd begun spending time with the other boy. Luckily he could just chalk it up to new writing utensils the few times his mother had mentioned them.

Marco's fingers fit easily with his, now used to the gesture. It was almost as if their fingers were the perfect size, no space left between the digits, but nor was it an uncomfortable squeeze. It made Jean smile for reasons he wasn't even ready to start considering. And it almost seemed as if Marco had been more prepared to deal with whatever they'd become before it even began.

When the thought occurred to him, he realized how accurate that actually was. It felt like Marco had somehow foreseen that they would end up like this. He shuffled a bit to look up at Marco. The other seemed to sense his gaze, and he looked down at almost the same time. Jean worried his lip.

"…You knew." He breathed. Marco blinked, processing the words for just a moment, then he smiled.

"I did." He admitted, as if he knew exactly what Jean was talking about without even the smallest bit of explanation. And he did, Jean realized.

Jean's brows furrowed, and he busied himself with finding each freckle on Marco's face as he thought. When had Marco figured it out?

"How long have you known?" He finally managed to demand, looking Marco in the eye seriously. The other only closed his own eyes, his easy smile still in place.

"Always." He replied.

Jean thought that over for a while. Always? Did that mean since the day they'd met? Since the day they first existed at the same time? And beyond that…

"How?"

At this, Marco paused, smile falling a bit. Jean recognized the face he made, brows knitted and bottom lip between his teeth, as Marco's nervous face. He usually only saw it when Marco wasn't sure if what he said would bother Jean or not. It was the face he wore when he said the most blasphemous of things.

The darker boy took a deep breath, finally returning his gaze to Jean, but only for a moment before it was stolen away by some wildflowers growing nearby.

"You keep saying that I talk to flowers." He began, smiling fondly at the blooms.

"Maybe because you always tell me that they have a lot to say." Jean defended. Marco looked back at him.

"Well, I don't have conversations with them. At least, not two-sided ones. The reason I can identify each as a certain meaning is because of their shape and their color. That's what sets flowers apart, after all." He continued. Jean quirked a brow, considering the fact that Marco was avoiding his question. But he opted to see where this train of conversation was going. Maybe it really did tie in somehow.

"Humans are a lot like flowers. Flowers might not be able to think or feel deeply, nor can they move of their own accord. But each one is different, and those small differences in shape and color can change the interpretation greatly. Humans are like that." He offered.

Jean felt more confused than he had when Marco started, but he tried to keep up.

"Their shape and color matters?" He tried. Marco allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Well, Jean, I see the world a lot differently than you do. I'm not the only one, but I suppose it would be hard to find someone else like me around here. Anybody could be, even you could be, if only they were open to seeing things differently."

If Jean was confused before, he was entirely lost at that point.

"Um, how is the way you see the world different from the way I do?" He wondered. Marco was silent for a long time, watching one cloud in particular crawl across the vast blueness of the sky. When he finally looked back at Jean, it was with hesitation.

"I still see all the things you do. I just see more. Each… Each person has their own color, their own shape. I'm not sure exactly what to call what I see. I've heard it called a lot of things; Auras, souls… Regardless, I've taught myself how to read them. Some colors go well together, some shapes just can't fit. Sometimes I can be a bit off, but I've gotten to the point that I have a general idea about anyone I see." He described.

Jean sat up, looking at the freckled boy in awe, and, if he was being honest, fear. What was he on about? Seeing people's souls? That wasn't possible. That sounded like magic. Until just then, Marco had seemed entirely normal, but if he was telling the truth about what he saw… Could he really be a witch? Jean hadn't even humored the thought in so long that he'd almost forgotten what the family was suspected of. Now it was coming back to him much faster than he was prepared to deal with.

He tried to remain calm. Hadn't he already committed to this, to Marco? He was already in the middle of an unforgivable sin, did it really matter that he was hearing this? After all, damnation remains damnation, regardless of the offense. That was something of a pessimistic comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Marco seemed to notice his internal strife, and he sat up, slowly inching closer until he could easily take Jean's hand again.

"That's how I knew that you and Mikasa wouldn't end up together." He offered softly. "Though the color… Well, I call it color, but it's more of a feeling that I can't describe that is just easier to verbalize as a color. Anyway, yours and hers did complement each other. The shapes, however…" He paused, searching for his words. "Well, to say there was no chance would be putting it nicely. They were so completely different from each other. They say that people have soul mates, and I agree; some of the… souls that I see are perfectly fitted together, colors absolute compliments. Others sort of fit, but it isn't perfect. My mother and father are the latter, as are yours. People like that make it work, they compromise." He elaborated. Jean, now considerably less fearful, nodded.

He'd heard about soul mates, and Marco's use of the familiar and common term made him feel better about the entire conversation. After all, Joan had used the term before. Levi had used the term before. The minister had used the term before. If it was such a common idea, it couldn't be a bad thing that Marco could see it. Perhaps he was blessed?

"So it is possible to be completely happy with someone, even if your souls don't quite fit all the way. But there was simply no way for yours to even come close to suiting Mikasa's. That's why I could say with confidence that it wouldn't work out." He added.

Jean scowled. So all that time courting the girl was entirely worthless. There had never been so much as a small hope. He wished he'd known that from the beginning, but then, he'd probably have ignored the information anyway, just as he'd done with Marco's warning.

It was quiet for a while, and it seemed that Marco was giving his companion time to process everything. He actually looked a little apprehensive, but he visibly calmed when Jean pressed closer, stealing a kiss before settling against his side.

"If it had been someone you had a chance with, I wouldn't have said anything. Like… You could probably make it work with Armin Arlert." He listed. Jean frowned deeply. Another boy. That was scary. "You could have been happy with him. Just as my mother is happy with my father. But I've noticed, people that manage to find the other person that goes with them perfectly… Well, they tend to be a lot more vibrant. They know a happiness that no one else can understand. And it's amazing. When you find the person you fit with, you know it, even if you can't see it." Marco sighed, smiling to himself.

"Most people don't even notice at first; All they know is that they're incredibly drawn to the person. They can't seem to keep away. And they can't be kept away from each other. No matter what is between them, they will find a way to get to each other, without fail. It might be gradual, but they will give up everything for each other, their beliefs, their way of life, even their lives. It's truly beautiful." He breathed, looking over at Jean, leaning over to steal Jean's lips in a chaste kiss.

Jean mulled it over, letting his head rest against Marco's shoulder. He'd call the boy insane if he wasn't so specific and knowledgeable on the topic. He really doubted anyone could come up with something like that; It was too fantastical to be imagination.

"So… What are we?" He wondered, thinking about it. "We've got to fit together at least a little, huh?" He mused. Marco hummed, squeezing his fingers.

"I'm not going to tell you." He said, and Jean scoffed indignantly. "I know you well enough to know that if I told you, it would change your attitude, and the way you do things. And I don't want that. I'd honestly rather you just treat our… Relationship the same way that you would treat one with anyone else. There's no need for you to change." He continued, punctuating his argument with a peck on Jean's cheek.

Jean felt heat rising where he'd been kissed, and he squeezed Marco's fingers.

"Alright. If you really don't want to tell me, then I won't bother you about it." He decided, letting his back fall until it hit the grass below, and he tugged on Marco's arm until the other teen obliged him with a giggle, laying down next to him so that the smaller could reproduce their earlier position, head perched easily on Marco's shoulder.

Even after he'd bid Marco farewell and was halfway home, he was still thinking about what Marco could see. He found himself wondering what people's souls were like. He even began to imagine it. Levi was the first he tried. He pictured it a very cool blue color, almost metallic, with sort of a misleadingly complicated shape. He thought it might seem sort of difficult to match at first, but wouldn't actually be that complicated once someone took the time to figure it out.

He remembered that someone had, apparently, taken the time to figure it out. Then he tried to stop remembering it, before it sent him into another panic attack. He thought instead about his mother. Well, her and his father. He bet his father's shape was jagged, and that his mother's somehow accommodated it, smoothing out the edges as best it could. His mother's color… He couldn't decide. Something warm, but not overpowering. Maybe a maroon or deep red?

His father, on the other hand… Gold. Jean didn't even have to think about it. He wanted to ask Marco, but he felt he almost didn't need to. Just like Joan's shoe buckles, like his belt buckle, like his ambitions. Gold.

Jean shuddered again, forcing the thoughts from his mind, thinking instead about Marco. Could Marco see his own soul? Jean thought about it. What would his look like? Earthy, maybe brown like soil or green like trees. Or maybe he was blue like warm summer water and skies. There were a lot of possibilities. He sort of wished he could see them, now that he'd learned they existed.

But he knew it wasn't to be. He wasn't like Marco. He was too afraid. But that was alright, because that meant that Marco was brave in a way he couldn't be. After all, they were compatible, weren't they? That meant Marco must make up for his shortcomings.

Or maybe that was only true for soul mates.

But then, who was to say they weren't? After all, hadn't Jean felt drawn to Marco, even before he would admit it? He had had no way to explain his desire to know what was going on behind the Bodt fence. He had no way to explain why he kept coming back, even though he was so obviously afraid of what Marco was. He had no way to explain why he was putting aside his beliefs, which were against practically everything he did, just to spend time with the boy.

Didn't that imply that they must be soul mates? Was that why Marco wouldn't tell him? Perhaps he thought that the information would frighten Jean. And, honestly, it did. But it was also a strange sort of comfort to think it. For, if they were truly meant to go together, then surely it couldn't be wrong for them to do just that.

But the bible said different, and that's the part that scared him. Because, if he were to admit that he thought he was right to be with Marco, then that would be admitting that there was a fault with what he'd considered to be the undeniable truth.

If there was one mistake, then there were many.

Considering that small fact was terrifying, rattling. But he couldn't unthink it.

Marco felt right. It seemed like they were always going to end up like this, regardless of what decision they made. Even if Jean hadn't come back when he did, even if he'd forced himself away, had gone to church every day and hung on to every single word, even if he'd succeeded his father as the tax collector, or if he'd become a journalist… Someday, he would come back. He might be older, more stubborn, less afraid, more afraid… But he'd be the same. He felt Marco was meant for him, just as he was meant for Marco. It was the first time he'd really thought of it in lingual terms, but he'd had the feeling for a long time.

He had grown to love Marco. And he knew, without verbal confirmation, that Marco loved him as well. And Jean doubted that could ever be different.

It terrified him. He was meant for Marco. Marco was meant for him. It was preordained, which had to mean it was divine.

It was a glaring contradiction to what he had always believed to be true. It was a fault. And with that mistake he had to question what else was wrong. What else had been transcribed improperly? How much of what he'd been taught was true?

So wrapped up in his alarming revelations was he that he didn't even hear Joan or his mother as they talked over dinner. Not a single word was comprehended. Not even one threatening word out of Joan's mouth made it into his mind.

It was an oblivious night he came to regret more than most in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a busy bee here lately, and I do want to warn you that it might be a while before you get another update, unfortunately. I have to somehow finish a costume by the fifth (heaven help me) save and pack for Torcon next weekend, go to school, work, and all the other things those entail. Which basically means I have a whole lot on my plate.
> 
> Still, I'm doing my best to keep up. I just want you guys to know that the next chapter likely won't come out in just a few days like they have been. Think more like a week or so. Sorry in advance!
> 
> In other news, FANART~! Oooh yeah! It has begun, and I'm super excited! The first is from Illien-Chan, which you can check out here: http://illien-chan.deviantart.com/art/Hold-ya-hand-484321592  
> The second is from aamukaste, which you can find here: http://aamukaste.tumblr.com/post/98533084010/kuroriyas-where-wildflowers-grow-is-a-really-good
> 
> Thanks to both of you wonderful people for the fanart, it warms me wee heart! 
> 
> On that note, anything related to this story can be tagged "fic wwfg" on tumblr. I check it regularly and stuff, and get more excited than I probably ought to on the rare occasion that something new appears in there. I seriously appreciate the support thus far~!
> 
> Alright, I need to get to work on another of my stories. I may or may not have let swimmer boys take over my life again. *sigh* Till next time, I'd like to thank you for following along, taking the time to read, and to leave me such fantastic feedback. You guys mean the world to me, so keep that feedback coming. It keeps me going!
> 
> I must away. Farewell dear ones.
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	11. Cypress

Jean woke up later than he usually did. That was the first thing that gave him a clue. The sun was too bright against his eyes, already yellow instead of the normal grey of early morning, which he had grown accustomed to seeing every day working with Levi. He had to squint against it, and he groggily wondered why on earth his mother hadn't woken him up when he'd slept through breakfast.

He had to go through his normal routine quickly, since he was running late. Who knew what Levi would do if he didn't make it in till noon! He regretted that he wouldn't get to see Marco until after working, but he did have to prioritize, as unfortunate as it was.

Once he was dressed and his hair had been tamed to some semblance of normalcy, he headed down the stairs. Sure enough, his mother was there, awake, sitting at the table. He'd been prepared to demand an explanation, but she looked… Hollow. Like she wasn't really there. He felt like she had retreated into her own mind, and wondered what could have possibly caused that.

His suspicion was confirmed when she didn't respond, though he called her a few times. He finally gave in, shaking her shoulder gently, and her eyes suddenly snapped up to his face, a bit of sadness mixing in with the surprise and the… Fear? Why fear? Sure, if he was his father, that could be acceptable. But she'd never looked at him like that.

"Mother?" He called softly. "Why didn't you get me up?" He wondered, keeping his hand on her shoulder, afraid that if he let go she'd disappear inside herself again. "I'm late for work." He added.

Her shoulder stiffened, and her eyes went wide.

"I-I think you ought to stay in today, Jean." She suggested, voice quiet but urgent. It was a strange thing for her to say. Usually she was the one scolding him for trying to get out of work, not the other way around. Why the shift?

"Um… I can't just take a day off whenever I want to." Jean pointed out. "Levi would have my head…"

She winced, biting her lip so hard it started to go white. What was wrong? Why wouldn't she just tell him what was on her mind?

"Jean, please." She begged, reaching out and holding one of his hands tightly between hers.

He took a moment to think over what she was asking, and why. She looked distraught, and was acting as if someone was in danger. As if Jean was in danger. But why? Had he done something wrong? Well… He could think of a lot of things he'd done recently that would be considered wrong by almost anyone who saw, but he was confident he hadn't been seen. Was he wrong in so thinking?

But even if he had been… Well, he would be less afraid for himself, and more afraid for… Marco.

He could swear he felt his heart caving in on itself. His whole body went cold, even in the sticky summer heat that loomed in the house. He couldn't focus on anything anymore, not even his mother's concerned face. Her terrified face.

"…Where is father?" He asked. She only shook her head, not meeting his eyes, retreating back into her mind as if that might protect her from the horror overtaking her son's face.

Without another word, he bolted from the room, ignoring her cries of protest, and ran down the familiar path towards the main street.

What would he do if Marco was there? What could he do? Even if Marco wasn't dead, would he be able to save him? What would be the point? It would only condemn the both of them. But he couldn't very well let them hurt Marco. No. He'd only just admitted to loving him, he couldn't lose him. He hadn't loved anything before then, and now that he knew the feeling, he couldn't imagine life without it.

He barely registered that he'd passed a man. But when he did, he paused, turning to watch him. He was walking, but too fast for it to be a stroll. And he was headed out of town. Jean watched his retreating figure, mind curious about his hast and disheveled blonde hair and burning familiarity, but he didn't have time to dwell, and he resumed his run, urging himself to go even faster.

It felt like he couldn't breathe. The air was so thick, so wet, and his lungs were fighting him with every breath to squeeze out what little oxygen they could. It didn't matter though. His legs couldn't be convinced to stop even if he'd tried. No matter how they burned, they wouldn't falter till he reached his destination.

The tree was always the first thing his eyes saw when he approached town. Maybe it was just a fearful habit, maybe the tree was just noticeable. It was sort of a relief to see it every day, for it was empty, innocently so. As if it was just a normal tree.

But that day, it was anything but a relief.

Even from afar, he could see it. There was someone hanging from it. He couldn't tell who, but his heart screamed the only name that mattered. He already wanted to collapse, to cry, and beg for death himself, but his last shred of reason insisted that he get close enough to see. To confirm.

Somehow he pressed forward, only collapsing when he was truly in front of the tree. He couldn't bring himself to look for a long, breathless moment. He almost wished he never had to look. But he needed to know.

His breath hitched when he finally did look up, heart seeming to stop its beating in his chest for a drawn out moment. When his breath finally came, it was shaky. Both with horror, but also relief.

It was Levi. Not Marco. And Jean knew it was deplorable of him to be relieved to see his mentor dangling, lifeless. But all he could think was that, thank God, it wasn't Marco.

Once his mind cleared a bit from his frantic panic, he nearly vomited. It was lucky he hadn't eaten much the night before. There was a small crowd gathered, some cheering and congratulating each other, others looking on with pity or discomfort. No one paid Jean much mind.

Levi was nearly unrecognizable. His height was what made his identity obvious, but otherwise it might have been hard. One of his eyes was open, the other shut and bloody, a cut and swelling likely making it impossible to open. His nose was obviously broken, and the blood only flowed down to join more from his lips, soaking into the front of what had once been a clean, crisp white shirt.

Jean couldn't count the broken bones, and couldn't bring himself to look long enough to try. All he could do was hold himself and try not to think about it. He wished he hadn't come. He should have listened to his mother. But he couldn't have just left it without making sure Marco was alright.

But was Marco really alright? Probably right now, seeing as the entire town was gathered. But if they would do this to Levi, a respected member of their community, then what hope was there that they wouldn't do the exact same to the hated Pagan boy? It didn't matter that he was young, that he was harmless, that he wasn't doing any wrong. If they found out what he and Jean did alone in the meadow, they'd do the same, if not worse, to the both of them.

They weren't safe, and Jean couldn't fool himself into thinking so anymore.

So lost in his thoughts and terrors was he that he didn't notice his father approaching. He didn't register the man's presence, in fact, until he'd rested a hand on Jean's shoulder, knuckles bruised and usually spotless shirt sleeves splattered with angry red stains.

He leaned in close, to make sure Jean heard him. He smelled falsely of oranges and vanilla, a perfume he'd bought a year or so ago. Jean hated the smell.

"A Sodomite." He explained, as if that justified what he'd done, what they'd all done.

Jean vomited.

It wasn't until after Joan had gone to bed, and that Jean had already managed to escape his own home, that he realized who the man from earlier was. The one that was leaving town. It was the man that he'd seen with Levi. He'd never even learned his identity, but he suddenly understood, knew how he must have felt. And he knew the man must have been strong to be able to run away. He was strong to keep going, even without Levi.

Even though Jean was afraid, he couldn't stop himself from walking towards the Bodt house. Even though it wasn't Marco in that tree, he still needed to see him, to be sure that he was alright, that he was alive. It didn't matter that he was scared, or that he could get caught, or even that it was the middle of the night.

When he passed by town, as much as he wished he could have avoided doing so, he was thankful to see that someone had been kind enough to let Levi's body down. Jean wondered where it was. Had they burned it? Tossed it into the river? Simply abandoned it outside of town for the scavengers to pick at until Levi was nothing but unidentifiable bones?

He really hoped someone had taken pity and at least buried him. Even burning the body would be better than leaving it up to nature, he thought.

It sort of dawned on him then that he had a lot to think about, in regards to his employer. Beyond the grief he felt for the man, which was more than he actually expected, seeing as he never thought himself too overly fond of him, he had to think about his job too.

Levi had been the town's news reporter. Without him, there wasn't a weekly paper. Would the town go without one, or would a new person take over the position? Would Jean? Could he? He wasn't sure if he was qualified, but realized he was probably more so than anyone else in town.

But, after seeing what had happened to Levi, he was more afraid of his father than ever. Before, the hanging tree had served as an idle threat. Now its legacy was alive again. Jean had seen for himself. He could be next, if he wasn't careful. Marco could be next.

Joan thought journalism was a waste of time. It was a miracle that Jean had convinced him to allow him the chance to apprentice. And now, what with his master gone, what argument could he really make in his own favor? How could he convince his father to let him take up a sodomite's trade?

He had to dispel the thoughts, for he was at the familiar fence, presently staring into the dark yard. He could just make out the sheep, penned up for the night, some bleating softly even at the witching hour.

Now that he was standing there, looking at the house, which was dark save for a few candles flickering near the end of their lives in an occasional window, he felt foolish. The chances were that Marco was sleeping. Even if he wasn't, the rest of his family most likely was, and he had no way to know which room was Marco's. If he really wanted to see the boy, he'd have to knock on the front door, disturbing someone.

He bit his lip. He wanted to see Marco. Needed to see him. But he didn't want to bother his family.

His heart stuttered when he heard a sound, eyes shooting up in that direction. But he quickly calmed when he realized what it was. With impeccable timing, Marco had opened one of the windows on the upper floor, his head poking out. He didn't call out, but he waved at Jean, and then Jean saw his shadow walking past several of the windows.

In a few minutes, he emerged from the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Jean met him halfway after stepping over the fence, glad for the cover of darkness as he all but collided with the boy, clinging too tight for comfort as Marco did all he could to keep them steady.

Jean didn't even realize he was crying until Marco had pulled him to the other side of the house and was wiping the tears away with his thumbs. But then it was over for Jean. And this time, Marco didn't have to ask what was wrong. He himself didn't cry, but he trembled just a little as he held Jean against his side.

The moon was high when Jean finally calmed down. And still, they were quiet for a long time.

"What… What are we going to do?" Jean managed, looking up at Marco.

It was the first time he'd seen such nervousness on the other boy's face.

"There's not really much we can do. I assume that no one knows about us, seeing as I didn't wake up to a mob this morning. But we… We need to be a lot more careful." He admitted. Jean shuddered.

"What if they catch us?" He quaked, eyes darting around as if he might have summoned someone with words alone.

Marco frowned, searching out Jean's fingers and squeezing them.

"Well, that's up to you, Jean. If they catch us, I don't have any doubt that I'll end up like Levi. You might not get it as badly, but you won't be the same." He warned. Jean swallowed the bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. His throat still felt dry.

"If you…" Marco paused, taking a deep breath. "I understand that this changes things. And I will understand if you don't want to do this." He promised.

Jean had to wonder what exactly this was, but he couldn't bring himself to question it aloud.

"It's a lot more dangerous and a lot more real now. I couldn't blame you for being scared. I'm scared." He admitted. That shook Jean a little more than it should have. Marco never said things like that. Marco was so strong, he understood things in a way Jean couldn't. He was calm. Never scared.

They fell into silence, and Jean thought about it all for a long while.

"Do you want to stop?" He finally asked, looking up at the darker boy. Marco bit his lip, looking up at the stars, as if he was asking them for guidance. He was quiet for so long, Jean almost thought his question would go unanswered, but then Marco inhaled.

"I love you, Jean." Was his reply.

All at once, the night seemed so loud. Frogs and crickets shrieked, shrill and echoing. The sheep seemed to join in on the impromptu concert, and the dissonance was strangely comforting.

Jean knew the words should have turned him away. They should have been the thing that assured that he'd never come back to this place, back to this boy. He almost believed that Marco had said them in the hopes that they'd send him running.

But instead, it made him resolute.

"I'm not leaving." He replied, the quiver gone from his voice as he pulled Marco closer, pressing their lips together almost harshly. He was desperate for it now, to feel this precious person, alive and warm. And Marco didn't deny him it, motion easy and practiced as he curled his arms around the other, pulling till their chests were flush and they could feel their hearts pounding at slightly different paces.

Jean could have fallen asleep there, against Marco. But he knew better. That would be the most dangerous thing he could do. So, after a few tired and still terrified kisses, Jean left, watching until Marco was safe inside his house again before he began the walk to his own.

He kept his footsteps quiet, even before he got to his home, and even more so when he did. Not even a single floorboard creaked under him. He didn't so much as breathe until he was in his room, in his bed. He heard Joan snore, as he always did when he was deeply asleep.

He felt like vomiting again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, my readers. I spent pretty much a week in Toronto, and that was quite the experience. My roommate and I went for a Supernatural convention, which was fun. But I managed to get incredibly sick the second day of the trip, and it was terrible by the third day. I started feeling better on the fourth day, but man, I thought I was dying for a minute there, and yet I still forced myself to walk to that convention every day.
> 
> Then our connection flight from Chicago got cancelled, and we wound up having to spend the night at the airport. One night of cramming ourselves into a tiny crevice behind one of the boarding desks and a lot of awkward spooning for warmth later, I am home and feeling better, though I do have a touch of post-con depression and a lot of Spanish to catch up on.
> 
> Not much else has happened, otherwise. EXCEPT for this: Where were you guys last chapter? I only got, like, one comment! Was the chapter that bad? You guys seriously have me worried! If I did something wrong, please tell me, because I've seriously been torn up about this ever since the last chapter came out. Feedback is hella important, especially if you spoil me early on with a bunch. Now I'm used to it, and not getting feedback is horrible for me. Call me selfish if you must, but please, talk to me.
> 
> I have started a Free! Fic and I shall not be stopped. I got sudden inspiration, and here I am. I'll post that someday, if anyone is interested in reading it. But for now, I need to do some work on TMTTR. Just remember, anything related to this story can be tagged fic wwfg on tumblr. I literally monitor that tag like a hawk.
> 
> And don't forget the fanart I linked in the last chapter! Check it out, give the artists some love! Artists love love! And I love artists. And they love me for loving them. And I love them for loving me for loving them, and we all love each other. And that's because none of us got enough love in our childhoods. And that's art, kid.
> 
> Alright, I need to stop. I've work to do. Till next time, my lovelies. Thanks, as always, for the continued support!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	12. Honeysuckle

Jean was actually pretty surprised about how little of a fight Joan put up in regards to him taking over the journalist position. He'd decided to do it, regardless of what his father said, but his announcement went over incredibly well when he made it. Joan didn't even argue, just made Jean swear that he'd do it right.

It took him a few days to get everything organized. Part of it was that he didn't feel right going through Levi's things. But the building was his now, and he had to know where things were, or there wouldn't be any newspaper at all. So, trying to put the discomfort aside, he got to work on finding everything and putting things in an order he could remember.

Then he had to set about finding a contact in the bigger city to gather information from. It took some searching, but he found a list of names with faraway addresses, and he set to work writing to each of them in hopes of establishing some sort of exchange.

With that, he'd done as much as he could. It was going to be hard to do it all himself, but he'd have to make do.

The one good thing amidst all of the new stress was that he had a place to call his own. He didn't live there, of course, but he had a key, and rooms all to himself. And, because he was his own employer, he got to make his own hours. No one questioned him if he got home late, for all he had to say was that he was busy. No one could refute the claim, since no one really saw him when he worked.

He hadn't yet brought Marco to the building, but he did decorate with flowers Marco gave him. It was his space, so his father couldn't come and throw his flowers out the window. All of the different plants left the place smelling crisp and floral, and he found that he liked it more than the minty scent left behind by Levi, though neither was unpleasant.

The flowers were sort of distracting though. He'd find himself staring at bluebells and sweet-smelling honeysuckle, thinking about Marco instead of doing the writing he was supposed to be working on. At some point each day, the allure became too much, and he'd pack his tools away and slink off to the Bodt's home.

He'd started coming a little later in the day, when most people had already retreated into their houses for the night. His mother had stopped fussing about him missing dinner, and had taken instead to leaving him something that he could heat up for when he finally did come home. To make up for it, he lingered with her in the morning, eating breakfast slowly and staying till mid-morning. Without Levi demanding he be up with the sun, it wasn't a problem. And his mother seemed to enjoy having his company for the extra few hours.

That's probably why she didn't complain about how late he was out. It was already getting dark out most nights when he jumped over the fence and searched Marco out. Instead of the sun's heat and blue skies looking down on them from the meadow, they had fireflies and moonlight. It was different, but not necessarily bad.

In fact, some nights, it was positively breathtaking. Marco's skin was sun-kissed, but it looked beautiful in the moonlight too, his freckles standing out even more than they did during the day. And the way his dark eyes reflected the innumerable fireflies dancing between the blades of grass was enough to have Jean staring at them for ages.

With the cover of darkness, they felt more ease with affection, lying in each other's arms for hours, exchanging kisses recklessly, brushing fingers across cheeks and jaws. Jean let Marco slip daisies into his hair, not worried that Joan would berate him for the emasculation, for he wouldn't see it.

They decided to go on a walk one night, waiting till around dinner time so that no one would be out. Even still, they cut through the meadow, heading in the general direction of the river again, walking slowly. When they'd reached the limit of the town, Marco reached out, catching Jean's hand with his. And Jean let him.

Crickets and frogs chirped, a soft buzzing accompanying their footsteps as they walked. It was seemingly aimless, the path they took. Jean almost wished they'd get lost, forced to roam the forest with only each other to rely on, together. He'd gladly brave the elements if it meant he could be with Marco without fear. But that was only in dreams.

It took a while longer, but they wound up at the same river bank. They didn't swim though, choosing instead to simply sit nearby and watch the water, some areas still enough that they showed the stars, and they could look down as if seeing the sky.

Jean shuffled over when Marco pulled gently, pressing their sides together and accepting a kiss when it was offered. Marco kept pulling, though, till Jean was in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. It was a bit more intimate than Jean was used to, but he eased into it, glad that he could angle his face down instead of up, for once. The position put him higher, so Marco had to look up to kiss him.

Even when their lips stopped, they remained in that position, Jean resting his head on Marco's shoulder, nose pressed into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent from a day's work.

"You always smell nice." He commented. Marco laughed, the vibrations rumbling against Jean where their chests met, and his fingers came up to gently rub at Jean's back. He hadn't even realized it was tense until he was melting into the big hands.

"If dirt and sweat are a nice smell, I suppose so." Marco joked. Jean rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss against Marco's neck, since his lips were already so close.

"You smell like other things too." He argued. "Like chamomile, and cinnamon, and flowers."

Marco's fingers found a particularly knotted spot, and Jean flinched, becoming mostly liquid almost immediately after.

"Do I?" The other boy wondered. Jean nodded, taking another sniff.

"Yeah. And your sweat isn't that bad smelling." He added. Marco snickered.

"You must love me." He commented. Jean's face flushed, and he buried it quickly into the crook of Marco's neck, lest he see. He couldn't say it himself, but he didn't deny it. That seemed to be enough for Marco.

His fingers trailed up, twisting in the fabric of the shirt that Marco was wearing. It was softer than usual, Jean noted, the weave tighter and the threads weren't yet bare. After pulling back and taking a glance, he grinned, kissing Marco's nose, mostly because it was the closest thing to him.

"You're wearing the shirt." He pointed out, rubbing the collar between his fingers. Marco rolled his eyes, but nodded.

"You'd probably thrash me if I didn't." He said with a sigh, fidgeting a bit with the buttons.

"I would." Jean agreed, flattening the collar carefully and inspecting the man inside. He looked handsome. He told him so.

"Mama said the same thing." Marco laughed, eyes darting towards the sky for a moment as if they were searching for the memory in his mind. Jean found his fingers rubbing gently at the nape of Marco's neck while the other boy was lost in thought. He didn't remember moving to do that.

He let his hands fall away, pressing his cheek against the taller boy's shoulder, feeling the fabric and inhaling the smell. It was everything he could ask for.

Jean had nearly fallen asleep against Marco's chest, but he had to force himself to stay awake. While he could be late getting home, he couldn't stay out all night. In a bid to keep his eyes open, he pulled back just a little.

"Marco?" He called. Marco drew a sharp breath, shifting and blinking rapidly. Apparently he was getting sleepy as well. Jean couldn't help a small smile. "You still won't tell me about our… Souls?" He picked the word carefully. Marco rolled his eyes.

"I won't." He confirmed, craning to kiss Jean's cheek. Jean sighed, sitting back so he could look into Marco's eyes. He was quiet for a moment, then he sucked in a breath, a coy grin gracing his lips.

"That's alright." He decided. "I think I know anyway." He added.

Marco quirked a brow, hands finding Jean's hips and holding on to make sure he wouldn't fall over.

"Oh?" He inquired, fingers dancing softly up Jean's sides and back down again, squeezing at his boney hips again. Jean nodded, humming.

"I think so, yeah." He agreed. Marco waited a long moment, expecting elaboration, but none came.

"Jean?"

"What?"

"You aren't going to tell me what you think?" He wondered. Jean snickered.

"Well, you won't tell me what I want to know." He shot back. Marco blinked, then chuckled.

"I guess that's fair enough." He agreed. "But it's going to bother me." He added.

Jean smirked, kissing Marco's nose, then his cheek. They were silent for a long while, then Marco made a small noise of distress.

"Alright, I can't take it. I'll make you a deal." He announced. Jean quirked a brow.

"I'm listening."

"You tell me what you think, and if you guess right on your first try, I'll tell you if you're right or not." Marco offered. Jean pretended to consider it for almost a full second, then he nodded.

"You have a deal." He decided.

They both went silent, and Jean took a breath, as if he were about to speak, but then he realized what exactly he was about to say, and his cheeks flushed, the words fell short. And, no matter how many times he tried to find the words, it sounded too embarrassing to actually say. Marco waited patiently, smiling encouragingly as Jean did his best to get it out.

"Jean?" He finally prompted after a couple of minutes had passed with nothing said. The one in question sat up straight suddenly, eyes wide.

"U-Um, I-" He stuttered. Marco laughed, hands coming up to cradle either side of Jean's face, and he pressed his lips to Jean's before he could stumble any more. That seemed to calm him down, at least a little.

He took another breath before trying again.

"I think… I think that we fit together really well." He began. Marco's smile sobered, but didn't fall completely. "And… I want to say that we're like our parents, that we're just making it work. But, when you told me about seeing them… Well, you said that soul mates are sort of… Drawn to each other?" He recalled. Marco nodded.

"Well, I think that… I mean, when I first started visiting… I was really confused about why. I'd been taught to be scared of you all my life. To hate you. Everyone always acted like your land, and your family was cursed. I know better now, but I didn't then." He explained, looking down at his lap. He took a small moment to redirect his thoughts.

"But, anyway, I couldn't understand why I kept coming back. It was like I couldn't help myself. And I couldn't stop thinking about you. And, well… That sort of makes me think that…" He paused, lip trembling. To say what he thought aloud was a daunting task. To say it was to admit to so much. But he needed to say it.

"I think that we're… Perfect." He finally breathed. Marco didn't move for a moment, and Jean chanced a look up at his face. It seemed neutral, for the most part. Had he misheard? "Er… I mean… I think we're… Soul mates." He finally managed.

Still, Marco's face didn't change for a long while, but eventually his lips pulled up into a smile. It seemed almost melancholic, but not sad.

"…I didn't expect you to guess correctly." He admitted, fingers squeezing Jean's hips again, as if that was a comfort. The words made Jean's heart flutter, beating rapidly and loud in his ears.

Soul mates. They were soul mates. They were meant for each other. The thought both terrified and elated Jean. To think, there was someone in the world that had been made just for him. To think that someone else could fit so perfectly with him, could complete him in such a special way.

But that also meant that he was bound to Marco. Now that they'd met, according to Marco, they could not live apart. If separated, they'd desperately fight to return to each other. They'd bend to each other, change themselves, give their lives for each other. It was daunting, yet it filled him with a sense of fullness, as if he'd been missing something until he knew for sure that Marco was his.

He was drawn from his reverie by Marco's lips on his yet again.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you." He sighed, running his fingers through Jean's hair. "You're already overthinking it."

Jean pursed his lips, scooting closer so that their chests were flush together again.

"Sorry. I just don't know what to think of it." He admitted. Marco nodded, and Jean felt the motion rather than saw it. "I'm happy though. I think." He added.

Marco smiled, and even though Jean had his face pressed back into the other boy's neck again, and therefore couldn't see it, he felt it. He felt Marco's happiness. Was that what it meant to have a soul mate? If so, it was beautiful.

When the moon started getting too high, Marco reminded Jean that he needed to get home, and they extracted themselves from each other, walking back to town. Jean was so dazed by the confirmation of his musings that he actually forgot to let go of Marco's hand until he was at the other side of the fence. And, even as he let his hand fall to his side, he couldn't keep himself from leaning over to kiss Marco once more before he headed for his own home.

The walk was quiet, but that sort of suited him anyway. It gave him time to think about what he'd learned. He still wasn't sure what to feel, but it was at least mostly pleasant. Sure, it was hard to consider that some higher being, namely God, had actually made him for Marco. That went against everything he'd been raised to believe.

But what other explanation could there really be? How else would he and Marco be perfectly suited for each other? Maybe Marco had some other explanation, but the only thing Jean could come up with was that the Father had made them to be that way.

But why? Why, if they were meant to be together, were they both male? If it was so wrong for two men to love each other, then why make two that couldn't be apart? And, beyond that, why make it wrong for them to be together in the first place?

He'd never had to question his faith so much before. Sure, Marco had said some things that made Jean think, but never had he actually thought that, maybe, just maybe, he'd been taught wrong his whole life. He couldn't begin to guess where it'd gone amiss. He couldn't bring himself to speculate about who was wrong; Was it God? Was it the bible? Was it the church? He was too scared to let himself come to a decision.

But, regardless, his mind had come to its own conclusion; Regardless of who or what was wrong or right, he knew he couldn't be apart from Marco. No matter what anyone said, if they were meant for each other, if they were made by someone to be together, then he'd be damned if he let anyone, even the creator, keep them apart.

No one, not the Father, not the preacher, not the townspeople, not even his father would keep them apart. If he were to die, then so be it. The thought should have scared him. It should have terrified him. To think that'd he'd rather die than be away from Marco.

But, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that he should be, he wasn't afraid. With the knowledge that they were meant for each other, he suddenly felt a sort of calm wash over him. For, if they were supposed to be together, then why should he let anything keep them apart?

What on earth could hope to keep them apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying for a Spanish test tomorrow. I can hear the sound of my grade slipping. Spanish has been weirdly hard for me. Like, I'm having a harder time with it than I did with German or Japanese. I don't know what's up with that. But I'm trying, and that's what counts, I hope.
> 
> I say as I slack off.
> 
> Anywho, twas time for an update! And I hope you guys liked it. Hopefully it's a bit more bearable than the last one, at least. I think I distressed a few people with that.
> 
> I'm really super excited for you guys to get caught up with me. Writing chapter 18 was really fantastic for me, and I'm so stoked to share it with you guys. But alas, it will be a while yet. Patience is necessary on the part of both me and you guys.
> 
> Random bit about KuroRiya: I used to never have chapters written in advance. Like, I put the chapters out when I finished them. I only sort of recently started trying to keep at least a few chapters ahead of my posting, just in case disaster befell me in some way. But it's so hard for me not to post those chapters, because god I just want to share them. I'm a loser like that.
> 
> And that has been the random bit about KuroRiya that no one cares about. Now, I must go. I should study, since I'm probably going to call into work tomorrow on account of mental health. And I know that's shitty of me, but I need it. I think I might have a little too much on my plate, but not a lot of choice in the matter. Real life is a bummer that way.
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys. And, seriously, thanks for the feedback. I'm sure you know by now, but it keeps me going more than anything! Till next time!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	13. Aster

The first time that he went inside the house, he could barely breathe. It shouldn't have been such a scary thing to do. He'd met several of Marco's siblings before, so it wasn't as if he would be entirely surrounded by strangers. Still, though his mind knew all of this, he couldn't stop his heart pounding as he edged towards the door that Marco was holding open for him.

He'd finally agreed to have dinner with them. He wasn't sure what it was about this particular time that Marco invited him, but he apparently couldn't resist. Maybe it was the face he made, or maybe Jean was just growing soft on the boy. Regardless, he'd agreed, and now there was no going back. They'd made extra food for him.

With one last deep breath that he hoped would calm his heart, but did very little for his nerves, he stepped through the threshold.

The inside was clean, and it smelled pleasantly of heavy foods. That made sense. Most of the Bodts were at least a little plump. Even Marco had a soft layer of pudge. It made him very nice to lay on. Jean's own diet was sort of lean, and his body showed it. Compared to Marco he was scrawny and more than a bit boney. Compared to anyone, really. It was something his father never failed to belittle him about.

Under the smell of food, he detected hints of cinnamon and chamomile, explaining why Marco perpetually smelled that way. And underneath that, there was a faint smell of dust. Jean guessed that, no matter how much dusting they did, that wouldn't change. But it wasn't stifling, instead just giving it a homey touch. It smelled like memories of old relatives that danced perpetually on the edges of his recollection.

It was better lit than he expected. There were several windows, and a few candles were already aflame, casting an orangey glow, sort of like a warm fire in the winter. Cozy was a good word for it.

If he were to be honest, the house was the opposite of what he expected it to be. It was bright, cozy, and warm. No matter how many times he'd seen it from the outside, Jean had always had the mental picture of gloomy interiors; Scant lighting, sparse furniture, long hallways that led to locked rooms, scarce upkeep. He'd anticipated cobwebs and symbols painted on the walls.

Yet it seemed even more pleasant than his own house. He felt surprisingly at ease, his initial nervousness dying down to only a small fluttering in his stomach, mostly about meeting Marco's parents.

Marco led him towards the inner part of the house, the smells of food getting stronger as they continued walking. They moved slowly, and Jean realized that he was being given the opportunity to look around. The walls were spotted with hung embroidery of differing levels. He stopped to look at one, and realized that the cloth that had been embroidered had once been a shirt, though it was obvious that it'd been on its last threads when it was reappropriated.

That was when it dawned on him how privileged he really was. Sure, he lived in a smaller town, so it was nothing like what some city brats had. But his family could afford to buy panels of fabric to embroider. They could afford to pay someone to embroider them. They had enough to buy French toiles. They had enough to paint their walls with colors, instead of just white-washing.

Still, the embroidery was good. Better than some that he'd passed. He'd never been taught how it worked, since his father was firm in his belief that it was woman's work. But he imagined it was long and tedious. It was obviously done by one of Marco's family, which made it all the more impressive.

He'd been so absorbed in tracing over the stitches that he forgot he was supposed to be walking. Marco reminded him with a gentle hand on his back, urging him forward with a small smile.

"Sorry, I got distracted." He murmured, fingers flexing at his sides. He kept his glances small as they made their way by the kitchen, not stopping again till he was before the table.

It was already set, and enormous. He'd never seen such a huge table. They must have made it themselves. And every single spot was set. The plates were simple in decoration, and mismatched, at least three different sets present, and several were chipped and showing signs of wear, but it somehow still looked orderly. And the mayflowers in the middle gave it extra charm.

Marco led him away from the table, into what must have been their parlor. There were numerous children inside, so many that they couldn't all fit on the furniture, and several were busying themselves with handmade toys on the floor. Somewhere in the sea of young faces was an older man, smoking on a pipe and flipping through a worn-looking book. His hair was peppered, but had obviously once been a light brown. His face was pale, dotted with freckles. Still not as many as Marco though.

It was this man that Marco approached, smiling fondly.

"Hello, papa." He called. It struck Jean as very odd that he still called his father that way. Jean himself had stopped that when he was still young yet. But Marco was a grown man, so it wasn't the most appropriate. The man didn't seem offended though.

"Welcome home, Marco." His father returned, setting the book aside. He then looked to Jean, a greying eyebrow raising. "And welcome, Mr. Kirstein." He added, lips quirking into a smile. Jean stiffened, trying to straighten his posture.

"T-Thank you for having me, sir." He offered, biting his lip. That had sounded pathetic. But the man's smile didn't fade, and he stood, offering his hand. Jean took it, glad his body hadn't hesitated as his mind had.

He could feel the wear, the age of the man's hand. The skin was rough, obviously overworked. The man looked tired, but friendly, and Jean felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was nothing like Joan.

"Sir is a tad too formal for me." The man laughed. "I'd say you could call me 'papa' too, since everyone does, but that might be taking it a bit far. Mr. Bodt will suffice, for now." He suggested. Jean blinked, then quickly nodded. What a strange family.

Mr. Bodt sat back down, taking a puff from his pipe.

"Marie, Art, why don't you play on the floor for a bit. Let Marco and his guest use the sofa." Mr. Bodt asked. True fatherly-fashion, it wasn't treated like a request, but a command, and a small girl and young teen boy hopped off the sofa and to the ground, stealing away some of the corn-husk dolls from other siblings and joining the play. Marco nudged Jean towards the sofa, sitting next to him.

Once they'd taken their seats, Mr. Bodt offered Jean his pipe, which was politely declined.

"It's a terrible habit." He admitted, taking another puff. Marco frowned.

"You say that, but still smoke it every day." He pointed out. Mr. Bodt laughed heartily.

"You grow smarter with age, son." Mr. Bodt informed him, looking towards the boy in question with a smug grin. He took a long drag, then set the pipe aside. "I've heard you frequent our meadow." He began, looking at Jean this time.

The one in question glanced at Marco, unsure of what he should say. He'd always been bad with social engagements, especially when they involved adults. How much did Mr. Bodt know, how much could he safely say?

"No need to fret so. I don't mind." The man promised, smiling kindly. Jean relaxed. "Marco mentions you from time to time. Tells me you're the reason he's always out so late." He added with a chuckle.

Jean felt a flush creep up his cheeks. The way it was said implied that Mr. Bodt knew more than he probably ought to. And that openness baffled him.

"I um… I work sort of late. Sorry." Jean breathed.

"No need to apologize to me. He still gets his chores done, so it's no problem of mine. Don't your parents worry after you, though?" He inquired. Jean shrugged, leaning into Marco's side as discreetly as he could.

"I do the newspaper, so there's no helping it." He replied. Mr. Bodt's eyes lit up with understanding, expression sobering quickly.

"Ah, that's right. You must have taken over for Levi." He realized, frowning. "Shame about him."

And the way he said it made it sound like he truly was sad about Levi's death. So many people in town would say something similar, but none of them held the same remorse. No one else really cared. Jean looked down at his lap, trying to bite back the grief that welled up.

"Y-Yes, sir… Er, sorry. Mr. Bodt." He corrected. His nerves had welled up with his sorrow. Maybe it was because sorrow was, at least in Joan's eyes, a sign of weakness. If he'd caught Jean crying over Levi, he'd have thrashed him. But Mr. Bodt didn't seem fazed. Marco carefully reached for Jean's hand, squeezing it softly. Jean flinched, almost moving to pull away, but Mr. Bodt didn't say anything about the show of affection, so he tried to relax into it. After all, that's what the gesture was meant to accomplish.

"He was a kind man, despite that attitude of his. He tried to help the town get along with us. I'm sure the only reason we're still here is because of him." Mr. Bodt trailed, looking wistfully towards the ceiling. "Hopefully the people have settled enough into the idea of us living here, though. Wishful thinking, I suppose." He chuckled, but there wasn't any humor in it. Jean frowned, for he understood. They would likely never accept the Pagan family on the outskirts of town.

Jean was glad that the conversation was brought to a forceful end as a voice called everyone for dinner. Jean made to stand, but Marco held him in place, and he quickly learned why; A sudden stampede of children, all racing to get to the kitchen, ran past. He could hear water splashing in a basin, and several shouts of protest or joy. He blinked.

"Is dinnertime always so hectic?" He wondered as he and Marco finally stood. The taller boy laughed.

"Always. We can go upstairs to my room to wash up." He offered, leading Jean to the staircase. "They'll be taking up the kitchen basin for a while."

Jean nodded, taking the steps easily, but with a new wave of anticipation. He was going to see Marco's room. He wondered what it'd look like, if it would reflect its occupant. He wondered if it was brimming with flowers, and if it smelled the way Marco did.

It was underwhelming, to say the least. Inside were three beds, two stacked on top of each other. Beyond that, the only other furniture was a washing basin and a small table that was bare aside from a single flower in a tall glass. It looked sort of like a daisy, but was just a bit different.

"What sort of flower is that?" He wondered, following Marco over to the basin. Marco stepped aside to let Jean go first, and glanced at the flower.

"Oh, aster. Art always complains about the flowers I bring in. He says they take up too much room. He likes to hog that table." He laughed, taking his turn at washing. "Mama lets me put them in the kitchen, though. She's the one that taught me about them." He added.

Jean blinked, realizing that, indeed, Marco would have had to learn that from someone. No one just had knowledge without gaining it. He wondered what sort of woman Marco's mother was. He supposed he'd learn soon enough.

They went back down the stairs, and Marco led Jean back towards the kitchen. Already the majority of the chairs were occupied by children buzzing with excitement at the prospect of food, yet some were still scrabbling for the washbasin. Jean wondered how on earth anyone could cook for so many people. He found a seat next to Marco, a small girl on his other side. Marie was her name, if he remembered correctly.

She stared at him openly, eyes narrow and lips pursed. Her cheeks puffed out though, which sort of defeated the scrutinizing look. She only managed to look cute, and very much like Marco. She had a lot of freckles.

"Marie, be polite." Marco scolded, noticing his sister's gaze. She huffed, rolling her eyes. Jean smiled.

"You aren't papa." She argued back at her brother, but didn't say anything further as Mrs. Bodt finally emerged, along with several other girls, carrying several big dishes of food that she set on the table. Jean took a moment to take her in; Her dark skin and hair, like Marco's. Her big brown eyes. She was plump everywhere his own mother was thin and wispy. Everyone waited until she'd finished bringing in food, and then it was chaos.

Jean could only blink and watch as about a million hands began grabbing for things, everything something of a blur. Even Marco had joined in, but he thankfully helped Jean fill his plate as well. Jean probably would have gone hungry otherwise.

It quieted down as everyone got their food, and it went silent as Mr. Bodt began something akin to a prayer. Jean watched with respectful curiosity as the man mentioned a god he'd only heard of in the epic legends of Greece and Rome. No one said amen, though. He felt odd eating without thanking his own god, but he was sure the gesture would be unwanted, so he kept it to himself.

With the children busy with eating their fill, Mrs. Bodt was finally able to address the guest.

"Jean." She called, and he looked up at his name, surprised she'd used his given. She didn't seem perplexed by his shock though. "It's lovely to finally meet you." She called from across the table, offering a smile. It reminded him of his own mother's smile, though he didn't get to see it very often. His mother had such a lovely smile, but she'd been forced to school it into a more modest curving of lips. She had to be proper, after all. But Mrs. Bodt's smile was all teeth, and it felt inviting.

"U-Um…" He began, unsure of what to say. He wished he could return the sentiment, but he'd never really heard about Marco's mother before, aside from a few comments made here or there. She laughed, shoving a spoon into the hand of one of the smaller boys who had been eating with his hands.

"No need to worry so. I'm sure Marco is rather shy around you. But he talks up a storm when he's finally come in." She explained. Jean watched Marco's face flush a pretty pink.

"Mama, please." He groaned, his expression mirroring Marie's pout from earlier. Mrs. Bodt cackled good-naturedly. Jean found he adored the sound.

"He goes on and on about you." She continued. Marco made another, high pitched noise, and Jean couldn't fight down a snicker. He was suddenly very glad he'd accepted the invitation. He'd never seen Marco behave that way, and it was incredibly endearing.

It was also sort of jarring. Jean was so used to Marco being calm, and quiet, and in control. He just seemed old beyond his years. Yet, here, with his family, he acted just like any boy his age ought to. He acted a lot like Jean did on a daily basis. It was refreshing, and Jean was thankful for the chance to see it.

"You should have heard him when you agreed to come to dinner yesterday." She added.

"Mama, enough!" Marco whined, and she finally gave in, sharing a knowing glance with her husband. Jean laughed along with her, easily sliding his hand into Marco's. And it was nice to not have to worry about who would see. It was nice not to care.

They ate rather quietly, a gentle hum of conversation a comfort that filled in for their silence. And there was even dessert, in the form of a big chocolate cake. Jean was surprised they could afford to make one, and realized that they'd probably only done it because they had a guest. He tried to take the smallest piece he could, and wound up giving half of his to Marco's sister, though it was some of the best cake he'd ever had.

She looked less disdainful towards him after that, a grin spotted with chocolate serving as her thanks.

Once the cake had been finished off, the children began retreating, only the older ones lingering to help with dishes. Jean tried to inch his way to the sink, but Mrs. Bodt was having none of it, shooing he and Marco away. He was too nervous to argue.

"Th-thank you for dinner." He offered, scratching at the back of his hand. She beamed at him.

"Any time, Jean. Please, do come back." She replied. Then Marco pulled him away, back towards the parlor. Mr. Bodt was smoking at his pipe again, but there were significantly less children.

"Papa, I'll be back in a bit." Marco called. The man looked up, then nodded, waving goodbye.

"It was nice to meet you, Jean. You're always welcome." He called. Jean returned the sentiment, following Marco out of the house. He was brought to the meadow, and he smiled, laying down next to Marco in the moonlight, looking up at the stars.

They were quiet for a long time, the only sound being the rustling of grass as their hands sought each other in the dark. Marco turned over to be on his side.

"I hope my family wasn't too overwhelming."

Jean laughed.

"I liked them." He offered after a moment, smiling fondly. "I liked you with them." He added. Marco's cheeks flushed, visible even in the darkness. "You're different around them."

Marco sighed, laying back down. Closer this time. Jean felt his breath when he spoke.

"They're embarrassing at best. But they are a loving family." He agreed, moving till he could rest his head against Jean's shoulder. He was so warm. Jean smiled.

"They make up for mine, definitely." He pointed out. He felt, rather than saw, Marco frown. He seemed to be thinking over his words.

"I get the feeling that your father isn't a very kind man." He finally ventured. Jean sighed.

"That would be putting it in polite terms." He responded, hand coming up to tangle in Marco's hair. It was starting to get a little long. He needed a trim. Still, it didn't really look bad. "The only person I know of that he really loves is my mother." He admitted. "And he has a bad way of showing it." He added.

Marco hummed to show he was listening, his hand grazing Jean's chest, tracing circles.

"I don't know if he's ever loved me, but I'm sure he doesn't anymore." He continued. "I think he's starting to realize that I'm not going to end up like him. I think he knows that I don't get all of my flowers from a girl."

Marco glanced up, face sympathetic. But it wasn't false. He was truly concerned. Jean couldn't help but kiss him.

"He could put up with me not taking the same job. He'd be mad, but he'd learn to accept it. But this…" He trailed, looking down at Marco again. "This is the worst thing I could do, in his eyes." He finished.

They both fell silent, and Jean felt his heart racing with a bit of panic as he realized the truth of those words. Truly, this was the single most terrible thing he could ever do to his father. And here he was, another man lying against his chest, pressing kisses to his collar.

He let Marco's easy breathing pull him back into some semblance of calm, matching the pacing.

"Why is that?" Marco finally prompted once Jean had collected himself.

"He…" He paused, thinking of how he should phrase it. "This is only what I've heard, but I think his own father was a sodomite. His mother caught on, and in the end, the town wound up hanging his father. So he had to take on work early to support his mother. He honestly worked himself up to the position we have now. We owe our wealth entirely to his hard work." He admitted. That was one good thing he could say about his father.

"But it's made him incredibly bitter. I think that the years have sort of… Warped the way he thinks about it. I'm sure that, at first, he hated the people that killed his father. But after a while, I think it turned more into hatred towards his father for ruining their family." He tried to explain. Marco nodded, fingers still tracing those patterns in the fabric of Jean's waistcoat.

"I don't blame him entirely for it, but it's still no excuse. It's made him so harsh, especially with me. You probably can't imagine the thrashings he's given me. He caught me trying to mend a pair of my breeches once, and I was feeling the bruises for ages. Said a man should never pick up a needle." He winced at the thought, then sighed. He'd only wanted to save his mother the trouble. "I think he's always been scared of me growing up to be that way. Like his father, I mean. I guess he was right to be scared." He laughed, realizing how ironic it was. "I suppose, in a way, it's just his way of protecting our family." He finished.

Marco didn't reply, moving to give Jean another kiss, then another, and another, until Jean's mind was dizzy. It was a pleasant feeling.

"Well, you're always welcome here, if it gets to be too much." Marco promised, resting his forehead against Jean's. The smaller smiled, wrapping his arms around the other and pulling him down so he could kiss him again.

"Thank you." He offered.

They lay for a bit longer before Jean admitted that he needed to be getting home. He said his goodbye, then was on his way. He still felt full from the dinner he had, and knew he'd be scolded for not eating what his mother had put out for him, but he couldn't manage another bite. He'd deal with that in the morning though.

The house was dark when he entered it, feeling gloomy in comparison to the Bodt house. It wasn't fair to say, since it was the middle of the night, but still, it didn't feel nearly as welcoming. It felt like a beasty might jump from the shadows at any moment. Or maybe just Joan. Maybe those things were the same.

He hurried up the steps, stripping down and getting into bed. He thought of Marco, flushed and stuttering as his mother teased him to help him get to sleep. It worked better than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same excuses, different day. As I near the end of the semester, things only seem to get harder and harder. But at least it's almost the end of the year! I need a break, to put it kindly.
> 
> To be honest, I sort of worked on a different story, which I try not to do when I'm in the middle of writing something, but I couldn't help myself. I'm sure a few of you guys have seen it, but just in case it didn't get around, it's called "Today for You." It's a ReiBert story, but be forewarned, it is a TransBertholdt story, so be aware of what you're getting into before you start it, if you do. It was a lot of fun for me to work on, though, so I'd love if you guys gave it a go.
> 
> In other news, if you haven't seen Over the Garden Wall, DO. I personally have been incredibly disappointed in cartoons here lately. I used to be an avid watcher, but channels like Cartoon Network have really let me down as the years went on. I'd honestly lost my hope for decent cartoons. And then this thing came along, and I heard about it a few times, and tried to ignore it.
> 
> I'm not sure what possessed me to watch it, but as soon as I saw the first episode, I was hooked. Seriously, this show has rekindled my hope for the future of American cartoons. And that was not an easy task. So, if you've even considered watching Over the Garden Wall, let me be the one to urge you to give it a go. I promise you won't regret it!
> 
> Alright, that's enough advertising. Off I go to regret my life choices and wish I had more markers. And that I didn't lose my tablet pen. I'm having a rough week. Well, regardless, happy holidays!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	14. Tulips

His first publication was, to put it kindly, shoddy. In his defense, he had a lot to teach himself, and not a lot of material to work with. He knew it needed work without even being told, but everyone in town was kind enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, apparently chalking this first print up to inexperience.

He nearly cried in relief when he received a letter back from one of Levi's old contacts. The man was named Erwin Smith, and he sent his condolences about Levi's death, informing Jean that he'd be more than willing to trade stories with him, as he'd once done with Levi.

In return for some stories about what was happening in the nearest port city, he asked that he be allowed to write about Levi's death, and suggested that Jean simply write him anytime something noteworthy happened in their little town.

It hardly seemed like a fair trade, in Jean's opinion; He was getting much more information than this Mr. Smith. But he wasn't about to argue it. Maybe Levi had been a particularly wonderful contact, and Mr. Smith felt indebted to him or something like that. He seemed especially remorseful about Levi's passing.

Jean was quick to send a letter back to him, hoping to get something truly interesting in time to put into the next paper. In the meantime, he spent much of his days checking in with people around town. The most interesting news he came across was the butcher's daughter, Sasha, entering an engagement with the boy from the big chicken farm on the east side of town.

Connie Springer, Jean had to remind himself. He needed to start remembering names.

Without much excitement to fill his days, he busied himself instead with Marco's chores. He was a bit incredulous when he realized one day that he'd developed something of a tan. It wasn't much, but he could tell his forearms were a shade or two darker than what was covered by his clothes. Marco only laughed at him, kissing the shocked expression away.

"That's what happens if you work outside so much." He commented, depositing a chubby lamb into his waiting arms. Jean remembered her as the lamb that was having trouble walking on the first day that he'd accompanied Marco on his chores. She bleated at him, but didn't squirm or anything. She was still heavy though.

"I don't even work outside all that much. It's no wonder you're almost as dark as cocoa!" He remarked, tracing down Marco's form with his eyes for emphasis. The other boy chuckled, gesturing at the dogs to get to work.

"I get a lot paler in the winter." He offered. "And my freckles fade a little."

Jean made a face of displeasure, carting the lamb behind the rest of the flock as they were led back to their pen.

"I like your freckles." He admitted, pursing his lips. Marco smiled.

"I'm glad. They don't go anywhere, they just aren't as obvious. And they always come back as soon as I start getting more sun." He promised, whistling loudly once all the sheep were in place. He shut the gate when all the dogs had retreated, and Jean leaned over the fence to deposit the lamb.

"Is she still having trouble getting around?" He wondered, nodding towards the bleating creature as she searched out other familiar sheep. Marco rolled his eyes.

"Not at all. She's long since found her legs. The problem now is that she uses them. She doesn't pay the dogs any mind. Fearless little thing." He lamented, sighing with exasperation. "It's easier to just carry her to the pen, at this point."

Jean allowed himself a smile, glancing once more towards the mischievous animal before turning his full attention to Marco. He watched the other boy close his eyes against a breeze, watched the way his dark hair, which was long enough now to tickle at his eyelashes, rustled in the breeze. It was nearing autumn, and Jean could almost taste it in the air already. Summer was still clinging onto its heat, though.

"Will you be harvesting soon?" He asked, gesturing towards their field. Marco nodded.

"We've already got the summer crops out. We do have pumpkins, carrots, broccoli, and lettuce in right now. Small patches of some other things too. It's mostly pumpkins though. Everyone in the house adores them, and even the people in town will buy them. We grow the biggest ones, for whatever reason." He commented.

Jean remembered the one time his mother had bought one of the Bodt pumpkins. He'd been along to market with her, and she'd made him promise not to tell Joan. It had been the best soup and the best pie he'd ever had, at least, that's how he remembered it. Maybe that was just the exhilaration of defying his father without the man even knowing it.

"Do you make pie?" He asked hopefully. Marco laughed, promising to invite the other boy over for pumpkin pie just as soon as they were ready to pick. Jean tried to play it off like he wasn't excited, but he very much looked forward to the treat.

Once the chores were done, they ambled off into their meadow, laying down side by side, as they usually did. Marco's big wooly dog saw fit to join them for once, flopping down next to Jean and laying her head on his shoulder. Marco took the other one, giggling when Jean huffed something about being a pillow.

The dog only lingered for about half an hour, then she apparently got worried about her sheep and, after licking a hot, wet stripe up Jean's cheek, she sauntered back towards the pen. Marco had to smother Jean with an embrace to get him to stop screeching about the incident.

It put an interesting spin on their normal daily activities, and Jean had to admit that it was nice to have a change once in a while. That didn't stop him from curling up against Marco's side and napping in the sun though, as he'd taken to doing. He woke to find daisies woven into his hair, but he found he couldn't bring himself to care as he looked up into whiskey eyes full of mirth and love.

He could feel it. Love. Marco loved him. And it was exhilarating. Breathtaking. It was more than he ever thought he'd feel from another person. More than he ever thought he'd feel for another person. He watched Marco's thoughts dance across his eyes, too quick for Jean to keep up with. But it was soothing to see the other boy's thoughts in motion regardless, to know that Marco's mind was racing just as much as Jean's own.

It took him a full week to convince himself that inviting Marco to his building was truly a good idea. He called it his, but it still sort of felt like it belonged to Levi. He'd never even been upstairs, hadn't disturbed the place that Levi had lived in and called home.

Still, it was a place where he could see Marco and not worry about who might see. Because there were walls, and doors that he could lock.

Marco seemed hesitant when Jean first brought it up. And that was only fair; Marco didn't go into town very much, especially not alone. Jean couldn't blame him. But after talking through it a few times, he agreed, and showed up at the back door a few days later bearing an armful of yellow and red flowers. Jean looked at them for a moment, then took them into his own grasp, waddling gracelessly towards one of the vases that had recently been emptied.

"These are tulips, right?" He hoped. Marco made a noise of affirmation, focusing more on looking around. "And I suppose you won't tell me what they mean?" He continued. Marco smiled, eyes still trained on the tables full of papers.

Jean sighed, fetching some water to fill the vase and then filling it to the brim with the bright blooms. Marco smiled fondly, fingers dancing along petals of several of the flowers he'd given Jean before.

"You really keep them all?" He asked, pinching a petal from a honeysuckle flower. Jean tried and failed to bite back a proud grin.

"Of course I do." He replied. Marco positively beamed, walking closer before trapping Jean with a kiss.

"I'm glad." He breathed, his nose gently pressed against Jean's.

When Jean pulled away, he made sure to lock all of the doors, just in case, then lead Marco over to a table that wasn't overflowing with papers.

"Do you want some tea?" He asked, brow quirked. Marco nodded, and Jean went over to the little downstairs stove, putting on a kettle and leaving it to boil.

He joined Marco at the table, sliding into the chair next to him and letting his hand fall onto of the one Marco had resting on the tabletop. Marco smiled up at him, turning his hand over so they could lace their fingers, and Jean eventually let himself slouch into the chair, heaving a sigh.

"How has work been?" Marco asked, squeezing Jean's hand carefully. The smaller let out a huff, gesturing around the room.

"I wish I could just come live with you and do chores for a living." He grumbled. He expected Marco to laugh, but the boy didn't. So Jean looked to him.

"You… You could." Marco breathed.

Jean blinked, then his face fell into a heavy frown.

"You know I can't." He replied, chewing at his lip. "I know your family would be happy to have me, but… My father would never allow it. He'd probably burn your whole house down, everyone, even me, still inside." He pointed out. He wished it was a joke. He wished Marco thought it was a joke.

Marco looked sadder than Jean remembered seeing him before, and he couldn't keep himself from tracing the curve of the downturned lips. They were soft, warm, full, and his lips quickly took the place of his fingers.

He pulled away only when the sound of the water boiling in the kettle overwhelmed the sound of his heart beating in his ears. He got up and mixed their tea, bringing some sugar and crème to the table with him and offering them to Marco first.

He watched as Marco tipped about half of the crème into his tea and stirred, waiting patiently as Jean spooned sugar into his own. Jean didn't take his tea with crème, only his coffee, so he returned that to the little icebox in the floor for later use. Then they got to work on the drinks, sipping quietly since it was still too hot to really gulp it down.

Jean's eyes darted towards the windows, more for distraction's sake than anything else, really. He wasn't sure what to say, and without the sky to look up at as they did in the meadow, the silence felt forced and uncomfortable. He hoped he'd think of something, but the drawn curtains didn't give him much to think about.

Jean let his cup fall to the saucer first, the chink of the glass meeting glass sounding magnified in the quiet space. Marco copied him, settling his own cup with a much quieter noise before looking up at Jean.

"Should I leave?" He asked, looking towards the door. Jean felt his lips fall open as his confused mind processed it. It took him what felt like ages to realize that Marco thought he was looking towards the windows out of nervousness and paranoia.

"No!" He gasped, startling the both of them. He quieted, cheeks flushed. "Sorry, no. I don't want you to leave. I just don't know what to say." He admitted. Marco seemed to relax, and he reached carefully towards the other boy, cupping his cheek and turning his face just so, until he had the right angle to lean in and slot their lips together.

"Sometimes things are better unsaid." He pointed out, offering a small smile. Jean looked down, shyness making him unable to meet Marco's straightforward and loving gaze. He still wasn't sure how to handle it, if he was being honest. But he forced himself to look up when Marco didn't desist.

Marco was still smiling, and he kissed Jean's nose when they finally locked gazes again.

"Some things should be said, though." He added, kissing his lips again, taking his very breath away. He blinked those long lashes once, then pressed his cheek to Jean's gently, so that he could easier speak into his ear. "I love you." He whispered.

Jean felt his lungs catch on the breath he'd been trying to take, and his exhale was shaky. Marco didn't move, remaining there with their cheeks pressed together, warm and still. The words Jean's lips tried to form fell silent before they even left his mouth, but still he persisted, trying to say something, anything.

"I-" He finally managed, hand coming up to grasp at Marco's shirt, trembling. "I… too. I love… you." He managed. When it was finally out, he could feel his whole body slump, both from exhaustion and relief. He'd finally been able to say it. And, from the looks of it, Marco was more than elated. His smile had never seemed so big.

Jean's tea had gone cold by the time Marco stopped kissing him. He didn't really mind.

He made a weak attempt to get some sort of work done, but having Marco sitting at the table leafing through some of his papers was too much of a distraction, and he eventually just pulled to other boy into the parlor.

It wasn't really a parlor, just a sofa and a chair occupying a small space. He assumed that Levi had a real sitting room upstairs. But it suited their needs well enough, and he sat down next to Marco on the plush, relaxing into the smooth fabric and letting his head fall to rest against Marco's shoulder.

After several minutes and a lot of shifting, Jean wound up lying in Marco's lap, staring up at him while Marco ran his fingers through the hair on top of Jean's head. Before he even knew it, he was blinking his eyes open, realizing he'd dozed off. His eyes flicked over to the door, but were quickly distracted when Marco smiled down at him, craning down to kiss him softly.

"You can sleep. It's just me." He promised, hands still carding through Jean's locks. "You locked the doors. If anyone knocks, I'll just pretend we're not here." He added, kissing Jean's forehead this time.

Jean nodded drowsily, giving up his battle with his eyes and just letting them close. The fingers in his hair lulled him to sleep the way his mother used to when he was still young enough that his father didn't scold him for being so dependent. It was familiar, but different, and he found he rather liked the heavier feeling of Marco's hands.

Marco smelled nice too. The cinnamon and chamomile mixed really well with the tea that Jean had made for them. It was a sweet scent, but not too thick, and it helped his body relax. That, paired with the quiet humming that Marco took to lulled Jean to sleep faster than he really cared to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, it's the holidays. And I've been busy with a social life, believe it or not. I've been spending more time than usual with friends and family, but I guess that's what you're supposed to do over the holidays? Baffling.
> 
> I haven't been inactive, though it maybe seemed that way. I've been working on chapter 20, which is a big chapter for this story. I'm actually a bit stuck, but I'll get it figured out. I've also been working on a second installment of my Trans!Bertholdt story. A very long second installment that is nowhere near finished. Heaven help me.
> 
> Well, anyway, you're probably getting tired of hearing it, but you guys are fantastic. I love reading your comments and getting a chance to talk to you. I really look forward to it every time I post a chapter. And I appreciate your patience. I know I suck as far as updates are concerned, but I do try. And I mean, at least I don't keep you waiting for three months. I know how frustrating that can be.
> 
> I'm rambling. To sum up, thank you, you are all fantastic, and have happy holidays, whatever you're celebrating!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	15. Sunflowers

Jean woke to find Marco had fallen asleep as well. He was leaning heavily to one side, though he still remained upright thanks to Jean's weight in his lap. Jean smiled, sitting up as gently as he could, successfully avoiding waking the other boy. He took in Marco's sleeping face, calm and relaxed. Jean had been told that he sort of scowled even in his sleep. Perhaps his face had just gotten stuck that way.

He kissed Marco back into consciousness, the darker fluttering his lashes as he blinked awake, lips smacking a few times as his mind caught up with his body. He looked up at Jean through his lashes, which were low with half-closed eyes, and he smiled. It wasn't toothy, but it was pleased nonetheless.

Jean returned the smile, nuzzling into the crook of Marco neck and inhaling. Marco was even warmer after sleeping, and Jean sighed appreciatively. Marco chuckled, stroking the back of Jean's head lazily.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep too. Did we nap long?" He asked. Jean pulled back, getting up and drawing the curtains aside enough to look out at the sun.

"There's still daylight, at least. I'd say it's about four." He guessed, yawning as he strode back over to the sofa. "Do you have to be back? It's Arturo's turn with the sheep, isn't it?" He wondered, trying not to dwell on the realization that he knew the work schedule of the Bodts.

Marco smiled, nodding.

"Yes, I had morning chores today. I can stay a bit later, if you want me to." He offered. Jean nodded, sitting back down and searching out Marco's hand, filling the empty spaces between the fingers with his own.

"That's probably for the best anyway. People will be going home soon, so it'll be high traffic. You should probably wait till about six or so." He suggested. Marco nodded.

"Is that because you don't want me to be seen, or because you don't want me to leave?" He wondered. Jean barked a laugh, squeezing the bigger hand in his.

"A bit of both, honestly." He admitted. Marco grinned, leaning over to kiss Jean's cheek.

He took to looking around again following that, eyes tracing over the stairway before he turned back to Jean.

"Levi used to live here, didn't he?" He inquired, gesturing to the stairs. Jean nodded.

"Yes. His furniture and everything is still up there. I haven't been up, though." He replied, looking up at the ceiling as if he might see the rooms above through it.

"I can understand that. It was his until very recently. But have you considered moving in at all?" He wondered. Jean's eyes widened, and he looked at the other boy quizzically.

"H-Here?" He stuttered. Marco gave him a look as if to say that that wasn't the brightest question he could have asked.

"But I… I mean…" He tried to think of a good reason why he ought to avoid that. But he couldn't really think of any. He was plenty old enough to move away from home, even if it was just down the street. And the place was, in all technicality, his. He held the deed now, and he'd taken to bringing things of his to make the space more personal.

And his profession of choice was performed right underneath the living quarters, which were just the right size for one person.

"I… I hadn't really considered it, no." He confessed. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

Marco leaned till his head rested against Jean's, and he hummed.

"I think it would make it easier for us to see each other." He explained. "I could come visit you sometimes without having to worry about your father seeing me and sending a mob after me. And you wouldn't have to worry about how late you're out when you come see me. We could fall asleep in the meadow, and wake up in each other's arms. You wouldn't have to rush home and lie about where you've been or why you've missed dinner."

Jean took a breath, still staring at the ceiling. The more Marco talked about it, the better the idea seemed. And, honestly, he was already used to the place. He'd been there pretty much every day while working for Levi, and now he was there every day working for himself. He might as well move in, honestly.

"I wonder if father would let me." He voiced, not having meant to say it out loud. Marco didn't comment, choosing instead to rub the back of Jean's hand with his thumb. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask." He decided, turning to Marco. The freckled boy gave him a smile, nodding.

"I'm sure he'll at least consider it. You're an adult, and you've proven yourself responsible." He offered. "Even if your newspaper wasn't fantastic, you made the effort to put it out on time."

Jean nodded, then his eyes narrowed.

"Did you just say I did a bad job?" He demanded. Marco blinked, his thumb stilling in its ministrations.

"Well, not bad, per se." He corrected. "Just not quite up to Levi's standards. You'll get better." He assured, obviously trying to stifle amused laughter. Jean huffed.

"How dare you."

Marco couldn't stifle the amused laughter.

"Oh, don't be offended. I thought you could use an honest opinion." He chortled. Jean scowled.

"You could have been a little less honest about it." Jean whined, nudging the other boy's shoulder. Marco kissed his cheek, as if that made up for it.

"Sorry. I'm sure your next one will be amazing, though." He guessed. Jean continued to sulk, but he didn't say anything else on the matter. Marco, after giving Jean time to consider any further arguing he might want to do, began humming again, occasionally peppering Jean's face with a small kiss.

After a few minutes, he stopped, turning to face Jean again.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?" He wondered. Jean blinked, glancing over at the other boy. It was an unexpected but not unwelcome inquiry.

"Can I?" He asked. Marco smiled, nodding.

"Mama's been pestering me to invite you over again." He offered. Jean chuckled.

"Sure, that'd be nice. I think mother said she was making greens with dinner tonight, so I could use an excuse to skip it." He agreed. "I'll just have to tell her I was working late."

Still, they had time to pass before it was safe to leave, so they got up and sorted through some of the writings that Jean had already begun accumulating. Marco helped him to pick out the ones that would be worth putting in the paper, and by the time they'd finished bickering about whether or not a tipped cow was worth the news, it was past time for them to go. Marco went first, and then Jean followed after sorting a few things out and locking the door.

When he got to the Bodt house, Marco was waiting out on the stoop, and he stood when Jean arrived, beckoning him into the house. Like last time, they went to the parlor and chatted with Mr. Bodt until dinner was ready.

"Ah, you really did come back." He greeted, blowing out a cloud of smoke and gesturing for the children to make room to accommodate Jean. "Welcome."

"Thank you, si-Mr. Bodt." Jean corrected, taking a seat after shaking his hand in greeting. Mr. Bodt chuckled.

"I thought we might have scared you off. Marco thought so." He pointed out. Marco groaned where he sat next to Jean, shooting his father a look.

"Papa, not you too!" He complained. Mr. Bodt barked a laugh, taking another puff from the pipe.

"No need to get so flustered, Marco." He chided, turning back to Jean. "How is the paper going?" He asked, quirking a brow. Jean sighed.

"According to Marco, not so well." He grumbled, shooting the boy a glance. Marco pretended like he didn't see it.

"Ah, yes. He's always been painfully honest." Mr. Bodt admitted. Jean was nodding, but the motion halted when he realized that he'd just received another backhanded insult from a Bodt. He huffed, earning a laugh from both Marco and his father. "If it's any consolation, Levi's first one was positively dreadful. He just decided one day that we needed to have a local paper. No one taught him anything before he got started." He recalled.

"It wasn't until he got in contact with some man from the port that he started improving." He added. Jean's mind processed that, then his brows drew up towards his bangs. He didn't know many people from the ports, and only one name really crossed his mind, since he'd learned it recently.

"Erwin Smith?" He guessed. Mr. Bodt seemed surprised to hear the name, but he nodded.

"Yes. He visited on occasion to teach Levi how to better his practice. After that, he'd visit to exchange stories. I'd say he was here once every month or two. He'd come by here sometimes to talk to us. You might have seen him before." He realized. "He was usually here on Sundays though, so you were probably given the day off. Did you ever meet him?"

Jean bit his lip, wondering if Erwin Smith was who he thought he was.

"No, never in person. I've just started trading letters with him, though. I found his address in Levi's papers, and I asked if he'd like to trade stories with me. I asked quite a few people, actually. He was the only one that replied." He explained, lips pursed as the girl, Marie, walked up to him and gave him a scrutinizing once-over yet again. He turned his attention to her.

"You're the boy that gave me cake." She recalled, tactfully interrupting their conversation. Jean was sort of glad for it though, for his mind had begun racing as he identified the man he was writing to. If he was right, then keeping Erwin as a contact was a dangerous ploy.

Marie was a welcome distraction.

"Yes, I am." He replied, offering her a cautious smile. She nodded, not giving any warning before she climbed up and planted herself in his lap. Jean froze for a moment, looking down at the child propped on his legs, but he eventually relaxed, shifting his thighs until the bones in her bottom we're quite as painful. Marco snickered, but Jean paid him no mind, proud to have won the affections of yet another Bodt.

Mr. Bodt gave a pseudo-annoyed sigh.

"Marie, you ought to ask before you climb into someone's lap." He scolded. Marie shook her head, craning a bit to hand Jean one of the corn-husk dolls in her hands.

"He likes me." She reasoned. "Or he wouldn't have given me extra cake."

Jean chuckled, taking the doll and examining it carefully. It was, of course, very crude. He could see where they'd tried to draw faces. It was pretty charming, in a strange way. Mr. Bodt's laugh was a tired rumble.

"Sorry Marco." She added, turning to face him. "He likes me now."

Marco snorted, covering his mouth with his hands.

"Oh no, what can I do? You're stealing away all of his affections." He lamented dramatically. Marie looked more pleased than she ought to have.

"It isn't your fault, Marco. I'm cuter. Maybe if you get more cute he'll give you cake instead." She offered, patting his hand.

They were all thankful when Mrs. Bodt made the dinner call, and Jean was quickly abandoned in favor of food. Marie didn't even spare him a glance as she raced the other children to the kitchen.

Marco laughed, waiting for the stampede to pass before leading Jean up the stairs to his room yet again, fingers laced tightly together as they walked. Jean was just finishing with the basin when Marco spoke again.

"You don't like Marie better than me, do you?" He asked. Jean thought he must be joking, and he almost laughed, but Marco looked pretty serious. He had to wonder why on earth the freckled boy even had to ask, his brows knit as he stumbled over to press a kiss to the other boy's lips. Just moments earlier, Marco himself had been laughing at the idea. Was he truly considering it now? Jean hadn't ever seen him act so vulnerable.

"Marco, what on earth?" Jean asked, looking into ale-colored eyes in confusion. "Why would you need to ask something like that?"

Marco looked rather small in that moment, and he looked down at the floor instead of at Jean.

"It's just… Well, you and Marie would fit well together. I know she's young, but-" He began. Jean quickly put a halt to that, though, covering Marco's mouth with a hand.

"Marco, honestly. I told you just today, didn't I?" He prompted. Marco's brows furrowed, and he looked lost in thought, probably searching his memories for the correct moment that Jean was speaking of.

"…Told me what?" He finally asked. Jean sighed, rubbing his eyes in exasperation.

"That I… I love you." He managed, surprised at how much easier it was to say this time. Marco's eyes went wide, then his gaze was back on the ground.

"Oh." Was all he offered. He seemed a little more at ease, though.

Jean sighed, waiting for Marco to use the basin before he spoke again.

"Beyond that, we're meant for each other, aren't we? Why would I be after your sister, who probably isn't even half my age, when I already have you?" He asked. He watched Marco's face warm up to a rosy color, and he was proud to know he'd caused a blush instead of being the one doing the blushing for once. "There aren't many things in this world that I love more than you." He added.

Marco made a small noise, grabbing for Jean's hand and pulling him back towards the stairs, opting not to reply. Jean allowed himself a small smile as he joined the rest of the family at the table, letting Marco get away with not replying. Marie grinned at him from her seat to his left, and he had to force himself not to be too friendly, schooling his own grin into a polite smile. She seemed a bit confused by the reserved nature of the expression, but she didn't mention it.

Mrs. Bodt seemed just delighted to see him again, and she spent most of the dinner doing her best to embarrass her son. It would seem that Marco truly was in a weakened state, for he wound up with his head buried in his arms, only low sounds of protest escaping on occasion when Mrs. Bodt would mention something particularly embarrassing. Jean only laughed good-naturedly, his right hand busy squeezing Marco's thigh as he clumsily tried to bring food to his mouth with his left. That seemed to put the other boy in a better mood.

Just like the time before, Mrs. Bodt wouldn't let him help with the dishes, shooing him off when he tried. He made it his personal mission to someday sneak in and help, even though he wouldn't be caught dead doing dishes for his own mother. Even if he did want to, Joan would give him a beating if he caught him with his hands in the water. Woman's work.

Marco didn't escape the dishes though, as much as he looked like he wanted to, so Jean went to the parlor to wait for him, assuming they'd spend some time alone outside before he began his trip home.

Mr. Bodt had elected to smoke on the front stairs, so it was only Bodt children inside, most prominently Marie. She noticed him immediately and waved at him gleefully. Jean steeled himself, summoning all of his courage before beckoning her over to him, knowing what he had to do.

"Marie." He greeted as she approached. She smiled at him, and he tried to return the gesture, but his guilt made it hard. "I'm sorry to say, but we need to have a little talk." He announced. She didn't look as excited to see him anymore, but she nodded nonetheless.

"You see, you've made Marco very jealous." He began. She continued to frown, but didn't comment. "So I think we should be clear; I do like you, Marie." He assured. She brightened at that. "But I love Marco." He added.

Her brows furrowed cutely, very similar to the way that Marco's did. Maybe that's why he liked her most out of Marco's siblings.

"I love Marco too." She offered. Jean's smile strained a bit at the corners.

"Ah, no. I don't love him the same way that you do." He elaborated.

It took her young mind a while to process that, then her cheeks went absolutely scarlet and her mouth took the shape of an O.

"O-Oh!" She gasped, covering her mouth with a hand. "You mean like mama and papa!" She gathered. He nodded, glad that she'd caught on.

"Yes, I love him that way. Do you understand? I do like you, but Marco is the one I love." He reiterated. She nodded fiercely.

"Okay." She agreed. "Can I still have your cake?" She hoped. He snorted, but agreed, and she took off to return to her dolls just as cheery as ever. Jean was glad that that was over with.

He realized, too little too late, that Marie was the first person he'd ever actually told about his feelings for Marco, aside from the one in question himself. He was thankful that she'd accepted it so easily, but he was surprised about how easily it'd come out. He put it to the back of his mind, though.

Marco rejoined him shortly, and Marie giggled as she announced to the entire room how much Jean loved him. Both boys made a prompt retreat to the front door, passing Mr. Bodt on their way out. He gave them a knowing chortle, but didn't say anything as they took their leave.

Once they were outside and sitting down, Marco scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Why on earth did you tell her that?" He asked, looking over at Jean with exasperation. The other boy only shrugged, laughing nervously.

"I tried to explain to her that I liked her, but I love you. And I think she gets it… I didn't expect her to shout it like that though!" He groaned. Marco rolled his eyes.

"The fact that you haven't got any siblings is painfully obvious." He breathed, heaving a sigh as his hand sought out Jean's. "I'll be hearing about this for days."

Jean kissed him by way of apology, arms snaking around his waist as he pulled the other into his lap, not really minding the weight, holding him in place while their lips met. Marco sighed, the sound upbeat and satisfied.

"I am glad that you sorted it out with her, though." He acknowledged. "I hate to say I was jealous of my younger sister, but I was."

Jean let his eyes close as Marco pressed their foreheads together.

"I didn't mean to make you jealous. I never expected something like that to get to you. You're always so level-headed and reasonable." He pointed out, toes flexing pleasantly in his shoes. Marco chuckled bitterly, his breathing audible so close to Jean's ear.

"You'd be surprised. I like you to think I'm level-headed and reasonable. Truth be told, though, I'm rather easily flustered. My whole family makes a sport of teasing me. Even the younger ones." He explained. "Something about being alone with you is really calming, though."

Jean hummed in agreement. He'd felt that as well; He was always a lot braver and more at ease when he was around Marco. Even the mere thought of the freckled boy was enough to help calm his nerves.

"I wonder if that's part of being soul mates." He mused.

Marco didn't comment, opting instead to press his lips to Jean's neck, then he stood, helping Jean up as well.

"I suppose that's something we'll come to find out. It's getting late. You should probably get yourself home. Will you come see me tomorrow?" He hoped. Jean rolled his eyes, walking towards the fence.

"Do you really need to ask? You know I will." He replied, leaning over to kiss Marco one more time before stepping over the fence and waving. Marco waved back, his smile visible even in the waning light.

The house was as quiet as the walk to it had been, and he did his best to make very little sound. He managed to avoid the squeaky floorboards, and he slipped into his room without much fanfare. He could hear Joan snoring in the other bedroom, and let that comfort him enough to get into bed.

His mind didn't quite want to go to bed just yet, so he let it race with excitement for the idea of moving into the post office. A place to call his own, where he could have Marco over. A place where they could sit on a sofa and nap together. A place where they could take their meals together without the distraction of other people. A place where he might even sleep a night in the arms of his love.

It made him giddy to consider it, but he had to force the thoughts from his mind in a bid to find sleep, since the moon was getting ever higher in the sky.

Instead, he recalled the tune Marco had hummed earlier, and before he knew it, he'd found the world of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, and this is going to sound horrible, but the reason this took so long to update was because I honestly forgot. I sort of knew in the back of my mind that I needed to update, and I had even done my editing a week or so ago, but then it was late and I said I'd post it the next day.
> 
> Then I got swept up in work and school, and, well, here we are.
> 
> So, sorry for the delay, I'll do my best to make sure it won't happen again, scout's honor.
> 
> I don't have much else to say, that I can think of. Thank you all for your continued support and sometimes forced patience, it seriously means the world. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and I promise, things start picking up yet again, very soon. Just you wait!
> 
> For anyone interested, part two of my trans!Bertholdt shindig is up. It features Jean, Marco, and a lot of sex. You know, if that's what you're into.
> 
> Till next we meet!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	16. Balsam

After explaining to his mother, at breakfast, that he'd accidentally dozed off while working on some articles, Jean had found himself painlessly out of trouble. She didn't even bat a lash at the story, only chiding him for working too hard before setting a plate full of fluffy eggs and well-cooked bacon before him.

He hated to lie to her, truly he did, but he found himself with few options. It wasn't as if he could say that he'd snuck over to the Pagan house for ritualistic sacrifice and a nice dinner. She would surely tell Joan, who would either beat him, burn him at the stake, or send him to the big city for a church school that might have better luck stamping the devil out of him. Probably all of them, if he was being honest.

So he kept that to himself, as well as the little frown that his dishonesty put on his face, and got on with life.

As much as he wanted to be gone from the house before his father returned for lunch, Jean knew he needed to breech the subject of him moving into the post office with the man, before he lost the nerve that Marco had given him.

So, instead of hurrying down the main street or down the familiar side street to the Bodt home, he lingered with his mother. While he waited for Joan, he helped her with little things around the house that had been bothering her, but had been ignored. He repaired part of the oven, cleaned out the fireplace in the parlor, and even managed to replace one of the wooden stairs that had begun to split dangerously, all before Joan got back.

When he did, they all sat down for lunch together, a tense, silent affair as most of their meals were. It wasn't till most of the food was eaten that Jean dared speak, hoping the food would have his father in a rare good mood.

"So, I've, uh…" He began, regretting that he'd started talking without rehearsing what he wanted to say. "I've been thinking about… Moving into the post office." He announced. Being straightforward was probably the best way to go, especially with Joan. He didn't like niceties.

His mother's fork hit the plate a bit too hard, and her mouth was open in surprise. Joan, however, didn't indicate that he'd heard anything at all. His face remained sternly unemotional, and his body language showed no difference. Jean was about to repeat himself, even, when the man finally looked up at his son.

"Have you, now?" He asked, eyes trained carefully on the one in question. Jean swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth, which seemed like much too little, for his throat felt entirely too dry. How was he to form words?

"Er… Yes." He replied, a bit of rasp to the words as his hands busied themselves with wringing together nervously under the table. "I'm…"

His heart was racing, and he wished it wouldn't. He couldn't seem to hear himself thinking over the sound, couldn't concentrate on all the good reasons why he ought to. He tried instead to remember what Marco had said, to picture his face as he had listed one good point after the other.

"I'm already there most of the day." He finally pointed out, looking down at his plate, imagining soft freckled skin and smiling lips. "And I'm certainly old enough to be by myself." He added, glancing up in hopes of gauging how well his words were being taken. Joan didn't show any changes in demeanor though.

It was silent for a moment, then it was his mother who spoke.

"But Jean, darling," She cooed, a deep frown set in her features. "You're not even eighteen yet! Why the rush, all of a sudden? You aren't married, and…"

It was obvious that she was well prepared to list off hundreds of reasons why he should stay at home. But Joan cut her off.

"Why not?" He decided, letting his lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. More of a smirk. Jean was baffled.

"Joan!" His mother cried, looking bewildered. "Don't say that! He doesn't even know how to cook for himself, or do his laundry, or-"

Again, she was cut off.

"He'll learn. And he wouldn't be living very far away. He could just walk home for dinner whenever he needs to. Getting away from your babying might man him up a bit." He pointed out, putting an end to her protests. For when Joan decides something, there is no sense in fighting it.

His mother seemed distraught the rest of lunch, but she kept her feelings to herself until Joan left to return to his office. Then she turned on her son, brows knit and lips pursed.

"That was sneaky! How could you do that without talking to me first?" She demanded. Jean winced, patting his mother's arm in hopes of comforting her.

"I'm sorry. I knew you would try to talk me out of it." He offered, shrugging.

"Of course I would have!" She cried, covering her face with her hands as she walked towards the kitchen. He sighed, following behind her.

"Mother-" He tried. "Try to understand. I can't keep living in this place."

She turned on him again, eyes wide and glassy with tears that hadn't spilled.

"Jean?"

He realized what he'd said, and chewed at his lip, trying to decide what he could say to explain himself.

"It's just… It doesn't feel like home anymore." He admitted, sighing. "I shouldn't be scared to come home every day. I shouldn't have to wonder what I might get yelled at for, or how hard I might get beaten because of what I might say." He tried to elaborate, but his words only made her eyes wetter and wetter till the tears really did fall, and he had to pull his mother to his chest for an entirely uncomfortable embrace.

He remembered the way he used to cry into her lap or her shoulder, the way she'd rock him back and forth, and promise that he'd be alright. Even only months ago, the time he'd been thrashed because he'd made friends with a doe eating out of the garden instead of chasing it away or bashing its skull in. Apparently that was no behavior for a true man.

After Joan had put his belt back on and left for the office, Jean had tried to shut himself away in his room. He hadn't cried in front of his mother in so long, and he'd managed to keep it back, but then she blocked his way upstairs and tugged him into the parlor instead. After she sat down, she tugged on his arm, and just like the child he truly still was, he'd scrambled into her lap and crushed his face against her shoulder while she patted his battered body gently.

He always cried the hardest when his mother was comforting him. But now, it seemed that things had changed, for now it was she that was crying. He patted her back softly, sighing.

"It's not that I don't love you, so don't think that way." He requested. "But I think it's time for me to have my own space. And I'll still be around. Chances are I'll come for food more often than not, and I'd really only be a few minutes away. The only real difference would be that I sleep somewhere else." He promised.

She sobbed for a bit longer before she got ahold of herself, at which point she followed him upstairs and helped him to pack away what few things he'd be taking with him. And, before they even sat down to eat dinner, he'd already taken his belongings over.

He did stay for dinner, too giddy about having a whole building to himself to really be too offended by anything Joan deemed necessary to say. And, when dinner was over, he bid them goodbye, kissing his mother's cheek and waiting till she'd stopped crying again before he headed over to his new residence.

Of course, he was only there a few seconds before he walked right back out and continued down the road to the outskirts, hopping over the fence he came to and walking to the field.

Sure enough, Marco was there basking in the moonlight, eyes closed and arms outstretched in the grass. Jean sat down next to him, wondering if he'd fallen asleep.

"Hello, Jean."

That answered that question.

"You're a bit late today." He added, opening his eyes and glancing over at the shorter boy. Jean smiled, lying down next to him, using one of his tanned arms to cushion his neck.

"Want to guess why?" He asked. Marco craned his neck so he could still look at Jean, his lips curling at the edges as he stared.

"He said yes, then?" He guessed. Jean sighed dramatically, though his own lips couldn't keep from a grin.

"It's not even fair, making you guess. Honestly." He groused, rolling over to curl against the other boy's side. Marco's arm bent over his frame, holding him loosely.

"When are you moving in?" He asked.

"I already have. I'm staying there tonight." Jean replied, elation rising up in his stomach. "Maybe you could come stay there too? I mean-" He began.

"Jean." Marco interrupted, kissing his forehead. "Not tonight."

Jean's face fell, hurt rising in his stomach. Wasn't the whole point of moving out so that they could be together? After all, he hadn't faced his crippling fear of his father for his own sake. He'd left so they'd have a place they could be together, away from ever prying eyes and judgmental gossip.

"Don't misunderstand, please. I do want to. But your parents will probably worry after you, at least your mother. She might come to check up on you. It would be safer to wait a bit." He explained. "Let her see that you're capable of managing on your own, so that she doesn't think to make sure every day."

Jean hated to admit it, but Marco was right. Marco was always right. The way his mother had acted, chances were that she'd be at his door with the sun. And, no matter how much he wanted Marco, he knew he needed to be careful not to be caught with him. He sighed.

"Oh, alright. It's going to be lonely all by myself. And I'll have to go upstairs… Maybe I'll sleep in the parlor, just for tonight." He mused. "Go up and clean tomorrow."

Marco kissed his cheek then, and he sighed.

"I feel sort of bad just taking Levi's things like this." He admitted, frowning to himself. Marco hummed lowly, the sound vibrating through his body into Jean's, the sensation pleasant and ticklish.

"Levi was the type who hated to waste things." He pointed out, fingers stroking through Jean's hair slowly, almost lazily. "So I'm sure he would have wanted someone to use them."

He had a point, as he always did. And that certainly made Jean feel better about the whole thing. Levi had been very no-nonsense; He wouldn't have liked perfectly good things going to waste because of something as silly and fleeting as sentiments. It made more sense, the more he considered it.

"Promise you'll visit me soon?" Jean hoped, looking up seriously. Marco smiled, using the angle to his advantage and pressing a kiss to Jean's nose.

"I could come tomorrow, if you won't be busy. Maybe mid-morning?" He offered. Jean nodded quickly, pressing closer as a cool breeze swept through the sea of grass, a few long blades tickling his arms. If his mother did stop by, he could get her to leave by then. And that would be the time that Joan was most busy at his office.

"I'll bring you some lunch, while I'm at it." He added, and Jean kissed his chin in appreciation.

"That would be nice." He agreed, moving his hand up to rest against Marco's chest, feeling the beating of his heart even under so many layers.

He stayed with Marco in the meadow for a few hours, mostly just basking in his presence as opposed to really speaking. They said goodbye when it became a bit too chilly to stay out without at least a light coat. Jean walked briskly to the post office, almost walking past it before remembering that that was where he dwelled now.

True to his word, he pulled a blanket out from his small pile of things and settled on the sofa, looking around the dark room warily. It was both nice to be on his own, and terrifying. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but his excitement and a feeling of disconnection left him wide awake for hours.

It wasn't until he imagined laying in a bed, upstairs in the moonlight, Marco pressed close to his back, his heart beating softly as they both drifted to sleep, that he finally managed to get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying not to make you guys wait a month, but here we are. I've been sort of having a hard time with keeping up with things lately. I've just felt a little overwhelmed with everything on my plate. I might have bitten off a bit more than I can chew, but hopefully things will start to calm down soon. It tends to come in waves, I've noticed.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is not as exciting, I think. It's one of those bridges, I suppose. Necessary, but not exactly fun. The next one is definitely more interesting, promise! And I'm working on chapter 21, and looking back to this chapter to edit… A lot happens between now and then. So I hope you guys are still hanging on!
> 
> I seriously need to start my sewing! I've been procrastinating on it so hardcore, but my convention is in two weeks! Luckily, it's a relatively easy costume, but I need to get to work. I keep putting it off because I'm so sleepy and have very few days off to sleep in, but gah. I need to put on some Paradise Kiss and get my butt in gear.
> 
> Because of Planet Comicon, I am going to be sort of pressed for time as far as writing goes, just so you guys know. So if there's a delay, I'm sorry in advance, but I get sort of con-minded around this time. So it's coming soon!
> 
> Anyway, see you guys next time! Thank you, as always, for all your patience, and for all the feedback. You're all very sweet, and I appreciate your time!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	17. Blue Bells

His mother's visit was unsurprising. After all, Marco was always right, so it was expected.

The sun hadn't even risen enough to light the path, yet she'd walked it, a warm breakfast tucked into a basket and tears in her eyes. Jean welcomed her inside and made her some tea to sooth her aching heart, eating the breakfast while she sipped at the warm beverage. He showed her around the ground level, since she'd never been inside, but he made her wait to see the upstairs. He wanted it to look like home before she saw it, after all.

It was about seven by the time he managed to get her out the door, only convincing her by proving that he had something to work on. She made him promise he'd come home soon to visit before she would be persuaded.

He sighed as he shut the door after watching her disappear down the street, trying not to be too annoyed, for he knew that he'd soon be missing her something terrible. But, at the time, he was antsy for a different visitor.

He knew Marco wouldn't be coming for at least another hour or two, so he tried to occupy himself instead with moving in. For the first time since Levi had died, feet creaked up the stairs, unfamiliar with which were weak where. He made it up nonetheless, glancing around the part of the building he'd never entered before.

The upper floor matched the lower one rather well. It was just as simplistic and just as coordinated. There was no excess, but then, there was nothing important missing either. Jean found he rather liked it, and he mentally complimented Levi's memory for his taste.

He first looked around, opening cabinets and drawers to see what was inside, working up enough dust that the place looked misty inside, and his nose was flushed from sneezing. Most of the things he found were rather commonplace, just tools and the like. But in one drawer, in the nightstand next to the bed, he found a stack of letters, tied together carefully with a small section of twine.

He pulled one out carefully, lifting the slightly yellowed flap of the envelope and unfolding the neat creases in the paper. His eyes traced the first few lines.

Dearest,

I find myself wondering how you fare while I am away. I wish I could visit you more. If only there were another of me to take care of my duties here, so I might spend my days with you in my arms. You'd probably hit me if I was there, and call me names for saying so, but that's somehow charming, coming from you. Sometimes I-

Jean forced himself to fold it back up and put it back into the envelope with just as much care as he'd taken it out. Then it went back where it'd been in the stack, and he headed downstairs, finding a drawer to put them all in.

The only thing he'd seen that he needed was the name signed at the bottom. And, he decided, he'd return them to the sender. He had his address, and frankly, he felt wrong keeping something that personal, or getting rid of them. Erwin would surely appreciate the gesture. And even if he didn't, it was his grief to deal with, not Jean's. He'd send it out with the next posting.

Since he'd been through just about everything, he began the process of taking his own belongings upstairs and finding places for them, getting mostly unpacked before he heard some knocking on the door downstairs, and he couldn't keep himself from racing down, feet thudding loudly on the stairs, flinging the door open with more enthusiasm than was probably necessary.

It was definitely more enthusiasm than was necessary, for it wasn't even Marco outside. No, the person staring back at him was none other than who had once been the object of his affections.

"M-Mikasa?" He stuttered, backtracking just a bit and trying to straighten himself up. She looked a bit surprised by his excitement, but she quickly returned to her normal demeanor.

"Hello, Jean." She greeted, dipping into a small curtsey. "I'd heard that you moved in here, and I thought I'd visit." She explained.

Jean stared at her, likely looking rather foolish before he stepped back, gesturing for her to enter.

She did, following him into the parlor and waiting until he gestured to the sofa before taking a seat on it. He himself chose to use one of the chairs, sitting across from her.

"So, er… Welcome?" He offered, gesturing to the surrounding space awkwardly. She gave a small little smile, picking up a basket she'd set next to herself on the sofa and holding it out to him.

"I've brought you a housewarming gift." She said, and he took the basket from her. "When I say 'I' I actually mean we. There's a cobbler in there from Armin, and some flint from Eren, and I packed you some tea." She elaborated. Jean peeked inside, then gave her a grin.

"Thank you. Tell them as well, if you would. I appreciate it." He replied, though he hated to admit that he was thankful to Eren Jaeger. She nodded, waiting as he took it to the kitchen and put it on one of the counters. The cobbler smelled fantastic, and he was excited to have a bite, but he knew it would be impolite to do so while Mikasa was waiting on him. Maybe he'd share it with Marco when he came.

He returned to the parlor, sitting down again before glancing at the girl.

"Oh, uh… Would you like tea? I can put the kettle back on. Or I might be able to find some coffee if you'd rather have that. I don't really have any snacks, aside from that cobbler, but, uh…" He rambled. Mikasa held up a hand to halt his babbling, shaking her head.

"Jean, I'm fine." She assured, waiting for him to relax back into his chair before speaking. "To be honest, I wanted to check up on you." She admitted, folding her hands in her lap.

Jean's brows shot up towards his hair, surprised to hear that Mikasa even cared to give him the time of day, let alone worried for him. He'd never known her to care much for him, a fact that he'd accepted after she'd kindly rejected him. And yet, here she was.

"I realize that I was the one that put an end to your romantic pursuit, and I understand if you've found yourself bitter as a result. I wouldn't blame you." She began. Jean frowned, realizing that, indeed, he hadn't seen Mikasa since that day. That probably did come off as bitter, though he hadn't meant it to be so.

"However, I know you to be a stubborn man, Jean." She pointed out. "I find it hard to believe that this one rejection would keep you away."

Jean blinked. What was Mikasa playing at? Was she actually interested in a relationship? He'd heard of girls playing hard to get, but he doubted an actual rejection could really fall under the 'coy flirting' category.

"Now, before you begin thinking of something foolish, I'd like to assure you that my opinion on the matter hasn't changed." She said, her words coming quickly, as if she knew what Jean was thinking. He deflated just a bit, and she gave another small smile.

"And I'm not trying to encourage a repeat. I only came because… Well, I'm worried. This isn't like you. At least, not the you I know." She finished. "So, what I've been trying to ask, in a needlessly wordy way, is this; Have you been alright?"

He sat back, mind reeling a bit from the words. Someone other than his mother cared enough about his wellbeing to check up on him? To worry about him? He'd never thought so, especially since he hadn't thought that Mikasa cared for him at all. She'd never shown much interest. But then, maybe he'd just never noticed.

"Er… I mean, yes? I've been fine." He said quickly. And, thinking about it, he really had been. She still looked a bit doubtful, though.

"Jean, have you really?" She asked seriously.

His mind went through flashes of memories, of days in the meadow, in warm arms, with soft lips. He really had been fine. Great, even. Sure, Mikasa had been his goal for years, but once he was free from thoughts of her, a whole world opened up before him. And, instead of his normal miserable countenance, he could say, with all honesty, that he was happy.

"Yes." He repeated, this time with conviction. "I've been good." He amended, not even noticing that his lips quirked into a true smile.

That seemed to sate her, and she sat back, shifting her dress a bit as she looked at him with interest. Now, instead of worry, she teemed with apparent curiosity.

"So I've heard. I was speaking with Sasha some time ago, and she mentioned that you might have an admirer." She said, covering a smile with a hand. Jean felt a flush and a dropping of his heart simultaneously. He should have known better than to talk to Sasha. She was spreading gossip? What if word got around?

But then, no one had to know his admirer was Marco. He'd never mentioned it, after all. For all they knew, he was being pursued by one of the many young ladies around town. Without anyone to say otherwise, they could think it to be whoever they like.

Mikasa actually laughed, albeit quietly.

"No reason to look so fretful. I'm happy for you." She promised. "It's relieving to hear that you really have been alright. I was worried when you didn't come back, but I can see that there was no need for my concern."

Jean smiled as well, face still feeling warm, but heart back where it belonged.

"But I'd love to meet the person that can put up with your attitude." She added slyly, retaining her polite posture despite her words. Ah, right, that's why he'd liked Mikasa. She didn't know her place, and he loved it. Granted, at that precise moment, it was causing him no small amount of grief.

"E-Er, I, uh-" He stuttered, her apparent amusement only growing as he fumbled for words.

He was saved by another round of knocking on his door. He first sighed in relief, but his posture quickly stiffened, for he recognized the pattern. He was frozen in his chair, unsure of what he ought to do. If it was anyone else, he'd simply deal with whatever questions they might have, but it wasn't anyone else.

It was Marco.

Mikasa quirked a brow, looking at him expectantly.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" She wondered, nodding towards the door. Jean bit his lip, glancing at it.

"O-Oh, uh, yes." He agreed, getting up and walking to the door with a stiffness that surely gave away how uncomfortable he was with the situation he was about to be in. He used the few seconds he had before reaching the door to try and prepare himself for what he'd have to say, what he'd have to do.

He opened the door too slowly, as if prolonging it might help in some way.

Of course, on the other side, Marco stood, a bright smile pulling his lips up at the corners as soon as he saw Jean.

"Good morning, Jean. Sorry that I-" He trailed off, quickly picking up on Jean's expression. His smile faded, and his brows knit.

Jean could already feel his heart ache as he looked at his love, trying to convey his preemptive apology with his expression.

"Can I help you?" He asked, voice more harsh than he'd ever used to address Marco. And he could see the pain, but also the understanding.

"Oh, um…" Marco paused, peering into the building. "I um… I had a question about postage." He finally managed. Jean bit his lip, frowning.

"Well, could you come back later? I have company." He spat, wincing as he watched Marco shrink away. He wanted to reach out, to pull him inside and crush their lips together and curl up against him in the parlor. But he had to let him backtrack, had to let him hurt.

Jean nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand at his shoulder, and he whirled to face the owner of the appendage. Mikasa looked out, glancing at Marco and offering a nod.

"That's alright, Jean. I don't really have anything else to discuss with you. Keep well." She offered, walking past him and down the stairs. "You ought to be more polite to your…" She paused, glancing at Marco who had halted at the bottom of the steps, and moved to touch his arm in a gesture that was so quick Jean almost missed it.

"Customers." She eventually finished, the tone of her voice obviously denoting an understanding that Jean couldn't guess at, and she nodded once more before walking away.

The two remaining shared a look, but Jean found himself back to square one, suddenly unable to know what Marco was thinking. He'd gotten so good at it, at looking deep into those ale orbs and sorting out the meanings to words unspoken. But now he felt shut out, like they'd closed to him.

After a tense silence, he nodded towards the interior of the post office, walking in and holding the door until Marco was inside, at which point he pushed it forward until he heard the click of it shutting into the frame.

Still, it was silent, and they both looked at different things, the air suddenly thick and stale. Marco apparently had better patience, though, for Jean spoke first.

"Marco, I-" He began, but his voice caught on the words. His mouth moved, but his vocal chords would not cooperate. Not that his mind could tell his mouth what to say in the first place.

Since he couldn't coordinate words, he tried instead to explain himself with actions. And Marco let him lay a hand against his arm, let him squeeze.

"Marco." He breathed, stepping closer. Marco stepped back, his heel clicking with a nearly mocking sound, making Jean swallow. His advances had never been rejected before, and even the tiny gesture scared him. "Marco, please."

Marco walked towards the sofa, taking a seat, Jean close on his heels. Jean sat next to him, staring at his hands, fingers twitching, wanting more than anything to lace with Marco's. But he could sense that it was unwanted, that his actions had been more painful than either of them anticipated.

Silence reigned for minutes, a hundred eternities before Marco finally broke it. Jean's head snapped at the mere sound of his preparatory inhale.

"I'm sorry that I came at a bad time. I should have been more careful." He said, long lashes casting shadows on his high cheeks, gaze trained on the floor, voice carefully smoothed. Jean felt like his stomach curled in on itself, like his heart had stopped altogether.

"Marco, I didn't expect Mikasa to-" He began, halting when Marco shook his head.

"You don't need to explain. It was my mistake."

Jean swallowed, focusing too hard on blinking, on breathing, on anything but the feeling of being eaten up by the ground below, of falling endlessly.

"Please, I… I just-" But he had nothing to say, no way to explain himself. What could he say that wouldn't hurt? What could he say that wouldn't be a lie?

Marco sighed, posture slackening as he slid down the back of the couch, shoulders hunching.

"Marco, it wasn't a mistake." He insisted, hands fumbling, torn between reaching over and knowing better. The darker boy finally turned to look at Jean, his face neutral but his eyes sad. Jean felt his breath hitch, and he finally willed his hands to do their job, to do something. His fingers brushed softly over dustings of freckles, trailing down to barely parted lips, his eyes holding contact.

"You aren't a mistake."

The silence came back, but it was less deafening and more jarring, almost surreal. He'd said the right thing. For once in his life, his mouth had said what his heart wanted it to, rather than what his rationale insisted on.

Marco's tears were warm, and Jean did his best to wipe them away, pulling him close enough that he could press their lips together, continuing forward until he could really wrap his arms around the other boy, holding him with more urgency than he usually allowed himself.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, close to his ear, kissing beneath the lobe. "I wasn't ready. I-" He kissed his jaw, inhaling heavily. "I froze up, and I was too harsh. I didn't mean to be. I love you."

If he wasn't so busy kissing them away, he might have envied how beautiful Marco's tears were, how beautiful Marco was. He wished he could look half as lovely when he cried. Marco didn't even sob, his face calm aside from a soft updrawing of his brows.

Jean kissed his nose, trailing down for his lips again.

"I'm sorry." He repeated. "I'm sorry."

Marco quieted him with another brushing of lips, his own hands coming up to cup Jean's face. He pulled away, his cheeks wet and eyes glassy but dry.

"I knew it would happen, sometime. I just… I guess I just wasn't expecting it to hurt so much." He admitted, finally looking up at Jean, lashes heavy and sticking together. Jean would have gasped if his lungs were working properly.

"I'm so sorry." Another whisper, another kiss, another desperate meeting of skin.

"She knows, Jean." Marco pointed out, holding Jean while he shivered, while his fear rose and made him nauseous. "She won't say anything. But…" He didn't continue, lying back against the sofa, drawing Jean to lie on his chest.

Jean shuddered, turning his head to push his nose into the fabric of Marco's shirt. He let the smell calm him. Chamomile. Soil. Sweat. Marco.

"What are we going to do?" He finally asked, looking up at Marco. The other boy just stared back at him, taking a breath through his nose, his lips smacking softly as he parted them to speak.

"What can we do?" Marco returned, looking up at the ceiling. "Be more careful? Be more secretive?"

Jean nodded, fisting the loose fabric tightly, focusing on the up and down motion of Marco's chest as he breathed, and trying to mirror it. Marco was right. They were already careful, already secretive. But now someone knew. Mikasa wouldn't say anything, but if she figured it out just by seeing them interact once, then who was to say others wouldn't do the same?

But, what else could they do? Jean knew better than to think he could do without the other boy, knew better than to think they had any chance of being apart.

"We should… Figure out what to do in situations like that." He decided, fingers finding Marco's and slotting them together. "So that I don't freeze up." He added, kissing Marco's chin. "And so that it doesn't hurt so much."

Marco hummed, pulling his hand away so that he could wrap his arms around Jean's waist instead, squeezing him almost painfully to his chest, burying his nose in the lighter locks at the top of Jean's head.

"I can still come here?" He asked. Jean nodded quickly.

"Please. It's lonely here by myself." He admitted, listening to Marco's heart thrum, fingers trailing up and down his sides for lack of something better to occupy themselves with. "Move in. Teach me how to cook. Kiss me."

His last request was obliged, and he keened happily, even as Marco pulled away.

"I wish I could." The larger boy sighed, fingers squeezing at the small of Jean's back.

"Why can't you?" Jean whined, knowing full well that he was acting like a petulant child. Marco scoffed, head lulling to the side.

"You know why." He replied, voice small. Jean let out a huff, sitting up, forced to straddle the other boy's tummy thanks to the arms entrapping him.

"I think somewhere in my mind I do, but I always forget as soon as you touch me." He offered, fingers tracing idle patterns into Marco's chest. "I forget most things when you touch me, honestly. Why can't we stay like this always?"

Marco watched him pensively, as if searching for some hidden meaning, as if he expected one.

"We… We could." He said carefully, stroking down Jean's sides, tracing his hips. Jean exhaled, eyes closing slowly. "But not here." He added, pulling Jean forward. "This town is too small, too scared. Too full of hate."

Jean leaned over, his lips feeling chapped where they met Marco's, prompting him to lick them wet again. Marco shuddered. He hummed.

"Why does your family stay here?" Jean asked, opening his eyes again to look at Marco seriously.

"For my parents, it's because they're too old to uproot themselves for no reason. We've never been in real danger, and as long as that's true, they'll stay here. But some of us do leave. I've had older siblings that left. They live in other places." He replied, hands still smoothing up and down Jean's sides languidly.

"And you?" Jean prompted, shifting on his knees a bit. "Why did you stay all this time?"

Marco's face lit up with the most beautiful smile Jean could remember seeing. It looked like sunlight and ambrosia and love, so much love.

"Because I knew you were here." Marco replied, easily pulling Jean down for another meeting of lips.

Jean sighed breathlessly, fingers slipping into Marco's hair, heart shuddering with affection, with too much love. Marco drank in his breaths, rubbed at his back until he'd forgotten how to use his bones and lay instead without internal structure, practically melted against the other boy's body.

"Stay here." Jean finally managed, lifting his head with no small amount of effort. "Please. Just tonight."

Marco tried to frown, but only managed to look neutral as his mind and heart fought to make a decision. Jean was on his heart's side though, and his desperate look was more than enough to win the freckled boy over. He huffed, rolling over to carefully tuck Jean between his body and the back of the sofa.

"Just tonight." He echoed, looking into hazel eyes seriously. "And I leave early." He added. Jean nodded quickly, hands fumbling for a moment before finding purchase at the back of Marco's shirt this time, pressing ever closer with the new leverage.

"Just tonight." Jean repeated, eyes closed as he let bliss take his worries away, if only for a fleeting moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible, I know it. I thought I'd get a lot of work done over break, but I definitely got a steam account and definitely did little else than play video games. But I don't really get the chance to do that regularly, so give me some leeway, if you would.
> 
> I do believe things picked up in this chapter, and if I'm remembering right, they continue moving at about the same pace from here on out. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> PCC was fun, though I didn't wind up cosplaying much. We had shirts we had to wear while working, which sort of killed the point of cosplaying, so we only did it on Friday. But it was still a good con, and I'm glad we went. And I was very good and didn't spend way too much money. I feel particularly reasonable. Maybe I'm growing up or something.
> 
> Alright, I'm about to get hit with school hell, so just be prepared. Your continued and seemingly endless patience is seriously appreciated, as well as all the feedback. You guys light up my days with your sweet comments. Thank you! And until next time~!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	18. Crown Imperial

Jean couldn't remember a time that he'd been so pleasantly warm in his bed. It was always either too hot in his room, or much too cold. So it was odd to wake up at what he considered the perfect balance of the two. And his body was entirely relaxed, as if he had found the exact position to leave him feeling weightless, as if he were among the clouds.

It took a while to register that he wasn't in his own room. Or rather, not what he'd considered his room most of his life. It was still Levi's room in his mind, though he was definitely beginning to acquire a taste for the foreign space.

Cracking his eyes open, he glanced towards the window, noting that it was still mostly dark outside, guessing that the sun had only just begun its ascent. That meant it was likely very early morning, somewhere between five and six thirty. It was much too early to be awake.

With a noise of contentment, he settled back into the blankets, fully ready to sleep for a few more hours, but his noise had apparently been loud enough to wake a bedmate that he hadn't remembered having.

Marco stirred with a gravelly sigh and an inhale through the nose, and Jean could actually feel his eyelashes flutter against the back of his neck. He'd completely forgotten that he'd asked Marco to stay, but now that he remembered, a smile tugged at his lips. Moving slowly and carefully, he turned to face the other boy.

His eyes were only half open, the normal rum color looking more like cocoa in the scant light. Jean watched him yawn groggily, then a smile began to form, his nose crinkling when the smile got a little too wide.

Unable to help himself, Jean smiled back, moving lazily to press a kiss to the other's chin.

"Good morning." He offered. Marco only yawned again, pressing his face into the crook of Jean's neck as he let his eyes close again.

"Don't let it be morning yet." He begged, breath warm against Jean's collar. "Only an hour more."

The smaller of the two chuckled, sluggishly moving his arm up until he could run his fingers through Marco's hair, earning a blissful sigh.

"If only, if only." Jean replied wistfully, glancing again at the window. It seemed brighter already. "But you said you were to leave early in the morning. As tempted as I am to trap you here, it might be for the best if you did go home for a bit." He admitted, huffing in annoyance.

"If we stayed in bed all day, no one would even have to know." Marco pointed out, his slow breaths bordering on soft snores. Jean's heart adored the notion, but his mind knew better.

"Perhaps not, but I'm afraid I do need to get some work done. And I'm sure you have chores." He added, Marco's groan muffled against his neck, the vibrations pleasant as they made a trip all the way to his toes. He smiled, pushing the fringe of the other's hair back, placing a kiss in its wake. "You can come back later, if you'd like." He offered, hoping that would sooth Marco's apparent reluctance.

It seemed to do the trick, for he found himself staring into those eyes yet again, fully open now.

"What time?" Marco asked, as if he was already counting the minutes.

He had to think on it a moment; His mother would worry after him if he didn't stop in for dinner, so Marco would have to wait until then.

"After supper time. I don't want mother to make herself sick with worry." He decided. Marco nodded, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes a few times, yawning at least thrice more before finally heaving himself up onto his feet.

Jean watched, captivated by his figure in the early sunlight, shirt long and shapeless but hinting at the form beneath, almost silhouetted against the window. He watched him shiver as he walked over to his trousers and began putting them on, watched him fumble a few times in the simple tasks, all of his normal grace replaced by a groggy-clumsiness that he found he rather adored.

When Marco had finally managed to clothe himself, he padded back over to the bed, leaning across it and reaching for Jean, pulling him closer until their lips could meet.

"I'll come again after supper." He supplied. Jean nodded, still much too breathless from a simple kiss.

"If you get here before I do, then let yourself in. I'll leave the key on top of the windowsill." He promised. Marco smiled, pausing for a moment before walking towards the door.

It took Jean a moment to realize his rudeness, and he leapt out of bed when he did.

"I'll walk you to the door." He explained upon a questioning look from the other. Marco just nodded, halting at the door for one more kiss before stepping out into the crisp morning air, waving as he turned down the street for his own home.

Jean watched him for as far as he could see, then shut the door and returned to the bedroom, still intent on getting the extra sleep he'd initially been after.

The bed wasn't quite as warm, but it still smelled like cinnamon and chamomile, which was enough to remind him that he'd truly spent the entire night held close in Marco's arms. He could almost swear that he still felt the warmth of the embrace against his back and ribs.

He allowed himself one giddy breath before closing his eyes and telling his mind to still and his heart to calm, at least long enough for him to find dreams again.

When he woke next, it was much brighter out. Bright enough that it hurt his eyes. But he knew better than to keep sleeping, for he hadn't lied about having work to accomplish that day. So he forced himself out of the warmth of the bed for the second time, actually dressing himself proper this time before going downstairs.

He first put the kettle on, hoping for some tea. If nothing else, it gave his mind something to start with. When the water was boiling, he looked through his options, remembering Mikasa's gift and pulling it from the basket, eyeing the cobbler that he'd forgotten all about. Armin had wrapped it nicely, so it would still be good, especially if he warmed it a bit in the stove. He'd forgotten about the pastry the night before, too busy being coddled by Marco to think of much else.

He'd have to remember to share it when Marco came again that night.

Once his tea was steeping, he got to work pulling out what papers he needed to sort through and put them all on the table, preparing himself to go through and read each one, and decide what would be in the paper this week. He still had several pages to write, and it felt like his deadline was already approaching, though it'd only been a few days since his last one had come out.

Before he sat down, he went out to collect the mail, the number of envelopes as low as it normally was; Not many people received mail around town. Still, he'd have to run out and make deliveries later. For the time being though, he was more interested in the letter with his name written in straight black ink.

Fetching his tea, he sat down and tore the envelope open, unfolding the contents and glancing over them. A small smile graced his features, which he needlessly hid behind the teacup.

Erwin had sent him some news from the port, which meant he wouldn't have to try to make cow-tipping a front page story. With a sigh of relief, he put the letter aside and began sorting through the material he had already accumulated, deciding what would be going in and what would not.

By the time noon came around, he was mostly finished, and very famished. And, seeing as he wasn't very keen on spending two meals with his father in one day, he opted instead to go out and get food for himself. He needed to stock his kitchen anyway, so he didn't see the harm in a short trip to the market.

With a basket hooked over his arm, he walked the few feet to the main street, starting on his normal rounds, stopping in at the bakery first. He'd just placed his order with the baker, who turned to get the requested bread, when the bell from the door jingled, alerting them to a new presence.

Jean wasn't sure how he knew, but before he even turned around to look, he knew it was Marco. He felt it. And he wasn't sure how to proceed, once again unprepared to handle a situation involving himself and Marco in public. He settled for drawing in a breath and refusing to turn.

The baker, however, acknowledged the other, though the change from professional politeness to ill-disguised contempt was visible in his face.

"Oh. You can leave them on the counter. I'll get your money, just one minute." He offered gruffly, shooting Jean a glance that promised he'd be back just as soon as he'd finished with the godless heathen, because heaven forbid he be allowed to fester in the shop too long. It would be a disaster if his pagan rubbed off on the freshly cooked bread.

Jean just nodded, stiffening when Marco sat a large basket of eggs on the counter. They were still and silent until the baker disappeared into the backroom, at which point Marco's arm lifted just enough to brush his hand against Jean's, both of them having to fight the urge to lace their fingers.

"Sorry, I didn't realize you'd be shopping today." The darker boy offered lowly, stepping just barely closer. Jean shrugged, staring at the counter, too scared to look Marco's way.

"That's alright. Are you still coming tonight?" He wondered.

"Of course I am. Should I bring anything along?" The taller asked, fingers seeking another fleeting touch. Jean thought on it a while, then remembered the cobbler.

"A dessert tea, if you have one. I drank the last of Levi's." He finally replied. Marco nodded, the motion visible from the corner of Jean's eye, though his attention quickly returned to the baker who had emerged from the back, an envelope in hand. He placed it on the counter and slid it across in Marco's direction, grabbing the basket of eggs and placing it under the counter in one quick motion.

"Come back for the basket tomorrow." He said, waving Marco off. The one in question nodded, producing a smile for the baker, and one more discreet touch as he passed Jean for the door. Then he was gone, and Jean found himself mobile once more.

"Sorry about that." The baker offered, going once more to get Jean's order.

"Uh, no need to apologize." Jean replied, glancing back towards the door where Marco had gone.

"I hope he wasn't bothersome while I was away. He didn't say anything deplorable to you, did he?" He asked, voice almost hopeful, as if he was looking for an excuse to hate the boy. Jean's upper lip pulled up into something akin to a snarl, but he forced it away, gritting his teeth.

"No, he wasn't bad company." He assured, taking his bread and paying for it with a curt goodbye. The baker looked a bit baffled, and more than a little confused, but he let it go without another word.

Jean stomped outside, and in his rage completely neglected to notice the figure standing just inside the shadow of the building. When he kept walking without pause, an arm quickly trapped his wrist, pulling him back before he had a chance to utter a noise of fear. He was just about to yelp, but a hand covered his mouth quickly.

It was warm, and big, and overworked, and he relaxed, turning to give Marco a questioning look.

"That's quite a hello." He pointed out. Marco smiled apologetically, hand finding Jean's.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to kiss you." He admitted. Jean's breath left him, and he gave a quick glance around before stepping forward to comply with the wish, fisting his hands in the front of the shirt he'd given Marco and pulling him down for a quick meeting of lips.

They both sighed as they parted, each taking a step back, still feeling close as their eyes danced together.

"I don't want to wait till after supper."

Jean smiled sadly, relishing in the sulky tone of voice but cringing at the implications of the statement.

"I'm sorry." Was all he could give. Marco mirrored his expression, looking down at his shoes for a moment, looking, for the first time, defeated. It made Jean swallow a little too hard, and he coughed. He hated that expression, he decided.

"Shop with me."

He actually balked when he realized that he'd been the one to say those words, but after seeing the way Marco's face truly lit up with cautious excitement, he knew he couldn't take it back. And so, after bracing himself for what he was about to do, he stepped onto the main street, Marco right on his heels.

After a moment, he paced himself to match Marco, so that they'd fall into a similar step. It was obvious that neither of them was really sure how they ought to do this; Marco kept trying to stay behind a bit, and Jean kept accidentally walking too fast. But once they found their rhythm, walking side by side felt a little too natural. If they could only hold hands, it would be perfect. But Jean would likely never be that brave.

His next stop was produce, and, ignoring the concerned look of the grocer, he picked out a few apples, with the help of Marco who knew a lot more about them. Then he picked at the vegetables, somehow letting Marco talk him into buying quite a few, since apparently they were good for him.

When he handed the coins to the grocer, he received a look that spoke volumes about his wariness of Jean's company. He was trying to ask questions with his eyes, but Jean ignored them, taking his change and gesturing to Marco that they were leaving.

People were going to talk, he realized. He was, after all, walking around with one of the Pagans of his own free will, and he didn't even look disgusted. What would happen when Joan got word? He couldn't seem to think that far, though, with Marco radiating happiness next to him. He was sure there would be repercussions, but he'd deal with them. If just walking down the street together could garner this much elation from his love, then so be it.

The last stop he made was at the butcher's shop, where Sasha was busy looking bored while she ran the counter, her teeth frequently sinking into the softened flesh of what appeared to be an entirely plain potato. Jean winced at the idea, but was sort of thankful. She spared them barely more than a glance, apparently too odd herself to consider their companionship much of an oddity.

She took his order, wordlessly putting her potato into a small drawer to be saved for later, most likely. Then she got to work filling the small request, wrapping Jean's purchase carefully before helping him pack it in his basket.

A look was shared between her and Marco, at the end of which she smiled almost knowingly. Jean got a chill as she turned her gaze to him instead.

"I understand the Hemlock, now." She proffered, retrieving her potato for yet another bite. Jean froze, eyes wide as his gaze snapped to Marco. But the other boy seemed relaxed still, so he tried to mimic. "Tread lightly. People are already talking." She added, expression serious.

They left, Jean sort of in a daze. People were already gossiping about them? If that were true, then Joan might know before dinner, even. And he didn't know if he could be prepared to talk about it by then. He'd have to be, though. Marco, at least, was doing his best to be silently reassuring, casually brushing him as much as he could as they walked back towards the post office.

Once there, Jean pulled Marco inside, closing the door hastily and immediately pacing across the floor.

"What am I to tell my father?" He demanded of no one in particular, the question more of a rhetorical.

"That you were interviewing me for a story." Marco answered as if it was a simple solution to come up with. Jean blinked, then turned to look his way, a new calm settling in his stomach.

"Ah, why are you so good at that?" He asked, sinking into the sofa and running a hand through his hair. "You make all my problems sound silly and simple." He complained. Still, he couldn't be mad, since Marco had provided him with the perfect excuse.

"I can't say I'm sorry." Marco chuckled, sitting down as well, capturing Jean's gaze before leaning forward for a kiss. "But do try to stay calm."

Jean nodded, sighing.

"And Jean?" Marco prompted, waiting till he had the other's attention before continuing. "Your problems are never silly. Simple, maybe, but not silly. If it's something that is causing you discomfort, then it's a problem, no matter how small it may be."

Jean blinked, then rolled his eyes, opting to take it as humorous and change the subject.

"I should leave soon. Mother makes dinner sort of early."

Marco smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'll come back in two hours." He decided, standing up. Jean got up as well, walking him to the door.

"Alright. Don't forget the tea." He urged, absently tangling their fingers when Marco's hand bumped into his.

"I won't. And thank you." Marco replied, squeezing the hand in his. Jean was confused for a moment, so he clarified. "For today. It was nice."

Jean returned the smile the best he could, squeezing one last time before letting Marco go and closing the door. Then he slid down it, pressing his forehead to his knees as he tried to take deep breaths. He missed Marco. He wanted to run after him and pull him back inside and kiss him until someone noticed they were missing and came looking. He wanted to walk down the street and hold his hand and buy bread without being looked at like he'd lost his mind. Without seeing people look at Marco like he was a monstrosity.

He really didn't want to face his father. But then, if he didn't show up for dinner, he got the feeling that his father would show up for a talk. And though he called it a 'talk,' talking was probably the last thing that would occur between them. With a sigh, he got up, adjusting his appearance in the mirror and practicing his neutral expression in anticipation of the upcoming conversation. He put away his new groceries in a daze, not even realizing that time was passing till he looked out the window to see the sun had moved and that he really did need to leave.

The walk to his old home felt much shorter than it ought to have, though his legs burned more than usual, like even his muscles were protesting the notion of this confrontation. Too soon he stood before his door, though, swallowing thickly as he debated between just walking in, and knocking. Which was appropriate anymore? He wasn't sure, but his mother thankfully took care of the problem, opening it to rush out and wrap him in a hug.

"I missed you, Jean." She cooed, guiding his head into the crook of her neck. He tried to act annoyed, but he was honestly in need of the comfort, so he couldn't keep himself from returning the embrace.

"Mother, please." He groaned, sneaking in a little squeeze. She chortled at the contradiction, then pulled back, her fond smile drooping a bit as she seemed to remember something.

"Jean, your father… Well, tread lightly. I think he's heard something about you that has him bothered. Just mind your words." She warned, brows knit in worry. Jean nodded solemnly, following her inside and taking his normal seat at the table, sniffing appreciatively at the familiar scent of cooking.

In his fretting, he'd forgotten why he'd even gone to the market in the first place, and had neglected to eat lunch, so now his stomach growled from the rich aroma of whatever his mother was working on. He could feel his mouth watering, and he doubted anything that Joan said could sate his hunger.

Still, he definitely stiffened when the man in question walked in, glancing in his son's direction before taking a seat and waiting for his plate. It came barely a minute after he'd gotten settled, still steaming and full of food. Jean's followed shortly after, and then his mother sat down with her own plate, smiling as she suggested that Jean say grace.

He had to suppress a shudder as his hand found Joan's. It felt so cold and stiff compared to the caressing warmth of Marco's palm, but he kept still and repeated a prayer he'd grown used to saying, his amen a thanks for release from the grip.

They ate in relative silence, as always, until they were all nearly finished. Then Joan cleared his throat, and Jean took a deep breath, knowing he was going to need it.

"So, Jean." He began, knife scraping the plate as he sliced into his remaining chicken. The noise was grating, but only Jean seemed affected. "I've heard some things today."

Jean's mother glanced between them, a frown finding her lips. It couldn't rival Jean's though.

"Oh, have you?" Jean wondered, going for ignorance, for the time being. That was safest.

"I have. I thought the baker had gone mad, but he wasn't the only one who saw."

Jean gritted his teeth, toes curling nervously in his shoes.

"Saw what, if I may ask?" He squeezed out, idly pushing his food around on his plate, pretending like he was eating. He could tell Joan wasn't buying it, but letting go of the façade would somehow be worse than admitting that he was lying.

"Well, it's going to sound ridiculous, but so many people swear to have seen you in the market with one of those Pagans." Joan's voice rumbled, though he was obviously feigning a lighthearted attitude. Jean's body halted in all motion for a moment, then resumed at a much quicker pace.

"Ah, is that so?"

There was a pause without sound aside from Jean's fork against the plate, but the silence was almost worse than the words. It took everything he had not to get up and flee to the post office, but he somehow managed until, with a small smack of the lips, Joan opened his mouth again.

"Well, what say you of it, boy?" He demanded, his gaze penetrating Jean and finally eliciting a shiver that had nothing to do with temperature. "Will you deny it?"

Jean set his fork down, eyes still trained on his almost finished dinner, then he looked up.

"Why ask me to lie?" He finally wondered, hearing his mother gasp while his father's eyes only narrowed.

"Then you were with him?" Joan asked, voice level but more frightening than if he'd been shouting. Still, Jean nodded, doing his best to seem confident.

"I was." He agreed, forcing down another bite. Another beat, another span of time with both of his parents staring at him as if he was a circus performer, and then more words.

"And?" Joan prompted dangerously. "What were you doing with him?"

Jean took his time swallowing, doing everything he could to make sure his inner turmoil and fear wouldn't surface before replying.

"I was interviewing him." He finally offered, wiping his mouth on his napkin.

Both of his parents seemed dumbfounded, so he continued.

"There have been some issues with the cows recently. Several have been knocked over recently, and a couple were actually found dead. I wanted to know what he had to say on the matter, since I'm sure a lot of people will blame the Bodts for it. It's good to get the whole story before you publish it." He proffered.

There was more silence, this time stretching on to be uncomfortable. It was clear from the expression that was slowly blooming on Joan's face that he knew he had been beaten at his own game, and he wasn't liking it. But Jean had definitely won this time; There was no way he could be faulted for doing his job well.

"I… See." Joan finally mumbled, releasing Jean from his gaze at last. Jean had to fight a triumphant smile. "I suggest you show more… Discretion next time you decide to do an interview." He warned, getting up and heading for the parlor, apparently done with the conversation.

It was quiet in the kitchen till they heard the creak of the sofa under Joan's weight, then Jean's mother was on him in a flash.

"Jean! What on earth were you thinking? What are you doing, talking to a Pagan! I thought I raised you better than that, honestly, and-" She rambled, but he cut her off.

"That's enough." He said, voice firm. "I'm done talking about it, and tired of hearing people talk about him that way." He murmured the last part. "He's not so bad."

She really gasped, looking scandalized.

"What are you saying! They're godless, and they make sacrifices, and-" She blabbered, cut off once again by her son.

"How would you know? No one bothers talking to them!" He seethed, earning a surprised inhale from her. "If anyone would stop blaming them for everything that goes wrong for a moment, and just talk to them, they might know better. Honestly, what have they ever actually done to anyone? I've never heard of them bringing anyone harm." He pointed out, his mother clearly at a loss.

"If they didn't live here, then we wouldn't blame anyone for the rain. It would just be rain. And if they weren't here to blame for every unfortunate happening, we would all just accept them as unfortunate happenings. It's not fair to them at all!"

He was actually sort of panting by the time he finished, and his mother was at a loss for words. He hadn't meant to rant at her like that, and he was already starting to feel bad about it, taking a few steps back and trying to calm himself down.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I just…"

She held a hand up, halting his apology before he could stumble over his words too much more.

"It's alright, Jean. I don't know why you're suddenly so fond of them, but I'm not going to question it. Just… Be careful. Just because that boy seems nice doesn't mean you shouldn't be wary." She cautioned. Jean bit his tongue, doing his best not to mention that he was way past just fond of them, Marco in particular. She didn't need to know. Bravery was one thing, but stupidity was another, and he got the feeling he was quickly crossing the line into idiocy.

"Alright, mama." He mumbled, shuffling towards the door before she could realize that he'd accidentally slipped back into his childhood for a moment. His father had insisted he call her 'mother' around the same time that 'papa' was disallowed, but it had always been hard to call her by such a stiff name. Not so much for his father.

She saw him to the door when it became apparent he had intentions of leaving.

"Won't you stay for dessert?" She asked in the doorway. He offered her his first smile of the night, shaking his head.

"Armin made some cobbler for me, and I forgot to eat it yesterday." He explained. "And Mikasa gave me tea. So I'm going to take that tonight. I'll come again soon." He promised, kissing her cheek. She waved him off, lingering in the doorway as he took the path back towards town.

He didn't allow himself to rush till he knew he was out of sight, at which point he strained his legs to get back home, letting himself in quickly and collapsing just inside the door, breath shaky as he exhaled.

Somehow, and he honestly had no idea how, he'd managed to avoid any real suspicion. And it wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. Actually, with an excuse at hand, it'd been relatively easy to fool his father. He reminded himself not to get used to that, running fingers through his hair as he recounted all of his conversation, checking to make sure he hadn't let anything incriminating slip.

He could only hope his mother would keep their conversation to herself. It wasn't as if he'd told her that he and Marco were together, but he'd definitely come off as attached to the family, he was sure. But she knew better than to leak that to Joan. She cared more about Jean's safety than Joan's need for control.

"Jean?"

The calling of his name made him jump, and his eyes shot into the dim light of his home, only a few candles making it bright enough to see anything. He recognized the voice after a while and calmed down, standing up and trying to regain some semblance of his normal countenance.

"Marco, where are you?" He wondered, stepping further into the entryway after locking the door.

"I'm in the kitchen." Came the reply, and Jean followed it into the mentioned room. He found Marco there, a fire built in the stove, cobbler already inside and a kettle above. "I started the tea." He added.

Jean smiled, a sense of relief flooding over him at the mere sight of the other boy, soft candlelight painting his cheeks in an orange glow. The pastry smelled good already.

"What sort of filling do you think he used?" Jean wondered, sniffing the air. "Blueberry?"

Marco smiled, checking the kettle.

"Smells more like blackberry to me." He suggested, and Jean rolled his eyes.

"So of course it's going to be blackberry." He mused. Marco shrugged, stepping forward to tangle their hands.

"How did it go with your father?" He inquired, leaning to kiss Jean's cheeks as he awaited a reply. Jean sighed, kissing back before bothering with words.

"Not terribly. I might have said a little too much to my mother, but I think father actually believed my story about just interviewing you about the recent cow-tipping incidents.

Marco snickered, swaying in place almost as if they were dancing.

"We really didn't have anything to do with that. You might ask the Springers if they've any ideas in regards to that." He hinted. Jean growled.

"Connie Springer, I swear-"

Marco interrupted him with a kiss, soothing him before he even had a chance to get worked up.

"The tea will be done in just a moment, if you want to take it off. I'll cut the cobbler." He offered, and Jean did his delegated task, preparing the tea that Marco hadn't forgotten to bring, finding it on the counter. He let it steep while Marco carefully sliced the dessert into squares, prying two out in almost perfect shape with what appeared to be minimal effort.

Jean could tell that Marco cooked at home, and imagined it must be nice to be able to do that without getting reprimanded by his father for emasculating himself. He didn't comment though, bringing the tea over, along with sugar and crème.

Once the table was set, they sat down, scooting their chairs so close to one another that their arms were pressed together and their legs would bump if they moved them too much. That was alright though, they found, doing it on purpose as they finished mixing their tea to their liking and, after Jean picked up the fork he'd managed to drop, took their first bites of cobbler.

It was blackberry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man you guys, I'm such a mess right now. There was no reason for this to be so late, and I'm seriously sorry about the wait. I've been in a weird state for a while now, but I'm trying to dig myself back out. Give me some time to get settled back in and things should be back to normal, I hope.
> 
> In recent news, I have acquired a couple of ferrets. I've got a panda boy noodle named Jasper, and a cinnamon lady noodle named Opal. They are terrible and wonderful and I am a happy ferret mom. They just got a bath today, and let me be the first to suggest you see a wet ferret as soon as possible. It is the best thing I've seen in a while.
> 
> Other than that, I've been very busy with being very not busy and incredibly antisocial. It truly comes in waves for me, and I'm sorry to those that wait for responses from me, or for chapters, or for anything really. I tend to focus on one aspect of my life more intensely than others, and that's been work lately. I'm trying to iron everything out again. Thanks for the patience thus far, though, and all of your support. Seriously, I can't put my gratitude into words.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> KuroRiya
> 
> 九六りや


	19. Coriander

They probably should have, but the two didn't discuss sleeping arrangements. When Jean climbed the stairs, Marco followed, the same boards creaking under his feet only seconds after Jean's steps, as if an echo. But it wasn't unnerving, because Jean knew who it was that traced his steps.

A stop in the washroom was first, and Jean held still while Marco undid the top few buttons of his shirt for him, pulling the kerchief away and setting it on the counter before folding the collar over so that it wouldn't get too damp while Jean washed.

By the time Jean had finished with the basin, Marco had undone his own shirt and took his turn with the water, playfully sprinkling Jean with some of it when he refused to hand over the towel. It felt light, to play around with one another like that, in a way they'd never really had time to. It possessed a newfound familial edge, more comfortable than what they usually allowed to settle between them.

With cleaning up out of the way, they headed for the bedroom. As they passed the hall closet, feet quick as their romance left them giddy, a broom fell. Jean paused, picking it up and opening the closet to put it away, having neglected to do so after sweeping a day ago. Marco watched, a strange look crossing his face before it returned to his easy smile. Jean wondered about the expression for only a moment before shrugging it off as merely his imagination.

Once they'd entered the bedroom, slipping in and shutting the door behind them, both of them released a sigh of relief they didn't realize they'd been holding as they gained a new sense of privacy in the protection of the bedroom.

As he'd done that day they'd gone swimming in the river for the first time, Marco stooped down to help Jean out of his stockings and garters, rolling them down carefully over his legs before discarding them in a neat pile on the side table. His fingers began to undo Jean's breeches while his lips slowly sought out Jean's, kissing him even while he eased the clothing down, pausing to undress himself much less gracefully.

They had to part for Marco to get out of his trousers properly, and Jean got into bed with a breathlessness, watching Marco's movements glide through the moonlight cutting in through the window.

It wasn't long until they were together in the bed, pressed close to one another, the tips of their noses ghosting at a touch. Marco smiled, brushing some of Jean's hair aside before guiding him closer for another kiss that tasted like pastry and blackberries and chamomile. It was better than dessert had been.

Jean sighed dreamily, shifting so he could cling to the larger frame, drinking in his warmth and his scent and his presence, so there, so alive. If he pressed his ear against the other's chest, he could hear his heart beating, could feel his chest expand with breath.

Marco trailed his fingers along Jean's waist, touch barely there but maddening all the same as it traced the contour of his ribs down to his hips several times before sliding up under the shirt to resume the same touch, skin to skin. It made the smaller shiver, fingers twitching in search of something to occupy themselves with, clinging to Marco in the end.

His breath hitched as rough, calloused skin flattened over his stomach, stroking across his lower abdomen in a way that was foreign and almost entirely too pleasant. It was ticklish in a hypersensitive way, one that left Jean a shuddering mess, not even saying a word when Marco's fingers easily undid the buttons of his shirt, sliding it over his slim shoulders and baring him to the almost chilly air of the bedroom.

It wasn't long before Marco followed suit, letting both of their shirts fall to the floor, forgotten in the moment they were aching to share. They focused on each other instead, on the way that pale, porcelain thighs brushed against Marco's hips, the man himself looking almost like a sepia drawing in the scant light. It was breathtaking.

Years of Jean's life screamed at him, threatened him, warned him that he was going too far. Everything till then had been excusable. Every flower, every kiss, every touch; If he repented, he had a chance. He could go back to his old life. He could go back to believing every word out of the preacher's mouth and not being able to pursue the things he loved for fear of his father's wrath.

But this; this was it. He might not know exactly what was happening, but he knew it was the pinnacle of everything that had been building up between them. He knew, as Marco's square hips lined up with his, as the pressure of the other's weight against him increased, that this was the final choice between salvation and damnation.

It should have torn him apart. It should have whirled in his mind to the point that he couldn't think, couldn't see. It should have tortured him for days, weeks, months, years to come. It should have troubled him. It should have crossed his mind.

But the thing was, his mind was clear. And he'd already made it up long ago anyway, that day when he first spoke to the pagan boy, a low fence separating them as if the embodiment of all the misunderstanding that stood between them for so long, built up by the fear and hatred perpetuated by all those around them.

He was damned the moment he and Marco first existed in the same instance. The moment he was born was the moment his soul was lost.

And he found, with the way Marco kissed him, he couldn't really be distressed. What was an eternity of hell when he'd had the privilege of this pleasure from the one he'd always been meant for? No sacrifice was too great to keep him from pulling Marco down until they lay flush against each other, the dissonance of their breaths lessening as time went on, until they were totally in sync, fingers twined and eyes open in unabashed stares.

Jean moved first, shifting to take Marco's lips, to capture them and hold them hostage as long as his lungs would allow, longer than his lungs would allow, as he gasped through his nose, still refusing to separate even though his body longed for breath. Marco pressed their foreheads together after pulling back, lips barely parted as they panted.

"Jean." He breathed, not to get his attention, not to ask a question. Just to say it. His hands cupped the smaller man's face, propped up on his elbows as he gazed down. Jean thought it might seem insincere if he simply said the other's name back, so he opted instead for silence, accepting the strangely powerful show of affection. Eventually, though, he realized that he knew the best way to return it.

"I love you, Marco." He said, voice steady. It shouldn't have meant as much, since they were tried words, practiced and common. But because they were the hardest ones for him to say, they were the most potent, and Marco's reaction was nearly instantaneous.

His eyes widened, they softened, his lips found Jean's, his heart beat faster, his face flushed. He looked beautiful, Jean thought, as he always did. But even more like this, naked and close and his.

Marco kissed Jean until it hurt, kissed him even more. He kissed until the ache of loving someone so much blocked the rest of the world out. He ignored the cawing of the night birds, ignored the way the clouds moved over the moon, ignored the moth flitting about in the corner of the room, white and stark in the darkness and for him. All of it for him, daring him to ignore.

Jean was more important, his eyes lidded and expression belying the fact that he'd forgotten to be afraid. And Marco did his best to forget to be afraid. Because if Jean, scared, angry, compliant Jean had learned to ignore his fear, then so could Marco. Jean always said he seemed so strong, so brave. He wanted to be, had to be.

Jean had grown so much in so little time, as if he'd simply been waiting to change his whole life, and all it took was someone willing to listen and accept and nurture. But then, Marco had always known that Jean was his. It was, therefore, different for him. He'd always anticipated bending and changing for this boy, when the time came. He'd always known what was to become of them, what he was to become. But Jean was learning, was only just beginning to understand how fated they really were.

Still, he seemed to be catching up in leaps and bounds, not even batting a lash at how perfectly his hips fit between Marco's, or the way his shoulders were just wide enough for his arms to easily slide under Marco's in an embrace. It was as if he'd never expected anything different, as if he couldn't bring himself to even question the perfection. As if he hadn't claimed to hate him not even a year ago.

As if he couldn't see where all of this was going, where it was leading them. As if he didn't know how their love was going to end. As if he didn't hear the howling of Marco's white sheepdog in the dead of night.

Maybe he didn't. Maybe Jean was oblivious. Maybe he was ignoring, as Marco was trying to, as Marco's family was.

Forcing dark thoughts away from his mind, focusing his eyes on only the treasure below him, Marco smiled, hoping it seemed reassuring and not anxious. He wished he could litter Jean's bed with roses and coriander and cyclamen. But there hadn't been time, so he'd have to make do with littering his body with kisses instead.

It was a strange meeting of lovers that they partook in, neither one truly knowing the means nor the goal of the act, but somehow working things out until it was a pleasant experience, in the end. No one really advertised information on how to properly be a sodomite, and it involved more trial and error than success. There were as many groans of frustration as there were chuckles at mistakes. And there were just as many whines of pain as there were moans of pleasure.

The words they spoke came out clipped and unsure, both learning and teaching what little they knew as they went along, trying to mimic and create and guess. It was all tangled limbs and bumped foreheads and hisses of surprise. But then it was tender touches, gentle kisses, loving meetings of skin on skin and whispers of affections. When all was said and done, they found themselves satisfied, bodies lain close together and fingers tangled pleasantly.

Their breathing, as it slowed to normalcy, was the same in pattern, something they both noticed but neglected to change or mention. For the first time, Jean felt completely comfortable with who he was and what he was doing, and no thoughts of his father could keep him from the giddy elation that danced along his heart. No sermon could stop him from straining his tired muscles to kiss at already swollen lips.

And no amount of fear could eat away at how happy it made him to see Marco smile like that as he nodded off, brown eyes closed blissfully, as if he didn't notice a white moth landing on his nose for a moment before disappearing into the darkness of the room. Smiling like he meant more than the entire world, like their love was eternal, like nothing could ever part them.

And in that moment, he began to believe that smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me recently that I oughtn't apologize for being late, but… God, I don't even know what to say. I've really been dropping the ball lately, and I suppose it's to do with my recent reconnection with some old friends of mine. While my social life has been rather hopping, my fingers haven't been as glued to the keyboard as they once were.
> 
> So, without further ado; I'm sorry it's so short and so behind schedule. I tend to struggle with proper updates towards the end of a story, which we're fast approaching. But I will get it done, never you worry. Even if I have to tie myself to a chair, it'll happen.
> 
> Well, I'm hoping my laundry is done so I can go home, so I'm going to keep it short this time. Thanks for being patient with me, and I'm sorry that I can't return the favor with quick updates. I am pathetic but trying. Feedback is always appreciated, and I promise, I have read all of your comments and I slowly but surely work my way through them. Sorry for the delays.
> 
> Till next chapter!
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	20. Snowdrop

The slamming of the door was what woke him, but it was the footsteps that struck fear in his heart. Familiar footsteps. Footsteps he would never forget, no matter how many years he spent away from his father. Footsteps that meant punishment and bruises and crying, and another thing he'd never be able to do without flinching.

But why here? Why now, as Marco stirred in his arms, grogginess making his eyes heavy and his intuition slow. He smiled, really smiled, managing to find Jean's lips for a kiss before noticing anything at all was amiss. Why did it have to be now? Why did he have to watch Marco's face fall from bliss to a flash of terror, followed quickly by a morose acceptance that was almost worse than fear.

He knew. He'd known.

"How long?" Jean croaked, brows already knitting as the footsteps thudded against the stairs.

"Always, Jean. I'm sorry." The brunette whispered, the weak coffee color of his eyes dimming to almost a murky chocolate as he closed them tightly, taking in a shaky breath as he pulled Jean closer, pressing his face into the smaller man's chest and inhaling heavily, as if he was trying to commit the feel, the smell, everything to memory. As if this was his last chance.

It was.

"I love you." Jean wasn't sure if he'd said it, or if Marco had said it, or if both of them had said it, but it was said, and it hung heavy in the air as the door was flung open, a lantern in Joan's hand to ward off the early-morning slate of the sky. The sun hadn't even peeked over the horizon yet.

His father said things, screamed things, but he wasn't hearing them. He was too scared about losing Marco to be scared of his father. He was losing Marco, he was already lost.

He sobbed as he clung to the other boy, even as his father did everything in his power to wrench them apart. He wrapped his arms and legs around him, wishing it was a dream, wishing he'd wake up. He wasn't waking up, though, and the pain of Joan's fingernails digging into his shoulder was real enough to guarantee that he wasn't dreaming.

Marco held on too, but Jean could tell he'd already given up. He wondered when that had happened, when he'd lost his hope. Had he ever had it in the first place?

In the end a few other men, roused by the commotion and Joan's words, helped to tear them apart. Jean was thrown into the corner of the room, his back and head hitting the wall in a way that winded him and had him seeing stars, too dizzy to even get up, to even give chase as they grabbed Marco by the arms and dragged him down the stairs.

He heard the thumps though, knew that they meant the boy had been thrown down the stairs without care. He heard Marco's low groan when he reached the bottom.

As quickly as he'd leapt to his feet and taken a single step towards the door, Joan had planted a knee in his abdomen, sending him reeling yet again, fallen against the floor with a groan almost identical to his love's.

"I always knew there was something off about you." Joan hissed, the words finally making it through the haze of adrenaline that had hit Jean when he first woke. "Never were quite right. Always doing woman's work, always chasing your mother's skirts."

Jean remained where he was on the floor, partially for the pain still racking his frame, partially for fear of facing his fate. He knew what was coming. He'd prolong it as long as possible.

"I did my damnedest to stamp it out of you. But every time I'd give you crops to plant, you'd feed them to the animals. Every time I gave you money to clean yourself up, you'd buy your mother flowers." He spat on the floor, and Jean watched its trail from the man's lips to the wood, looking anywhere but at his father.

"The baker saw that boy heading over here last night. Didn't say anything till this morning. I ought to send for his head too." He seethed, fingers clenching, fists forming. Jean trembled. "And what do I find when I get up here? You didn't even have the shame to try and hide."

Jean got to his knees, shakily testing his limbs till he was on his feet, still feeling weak, as if his bones couldn't support him anymore, but he forced himself to stay upright.

"You're disgusting!" Joan sneered, voice losing its calm edge and giving way to more obvious anger. Jean flinched. "Do you even understand? You're a sodomite!"

Jean withered, pressing himself against the opposite wall as the man advanced towards him.

"A sodomite!" He screamed, the first move a backhand, Jean's entire body stumbling to the right from the impact. His cheek hurt, the stinging numbness making it impossible to know if he'd cut the inside on his teeth. He probably had.

Next was his stomach again, and the same cheek, at which point he fell to the ground, curling up in the most protective ball he could. Joan paused, though, not delivering the expected blow. Jean chanced a glance up when he was left alone for several seconds, only to see his father grinning. That couldn't mean anything good.

"Do you want to know what they're doing to him?" He jeered. And Jean wished he could hear anything but that. God, anything but that. But he knew better than to even open his mouth.

"They're going to drag him back to his family's farm, then beat him till he doesn't have an unbroken bone in his body. Then they're going to tie him to a stake, and he's going to stay put until tomorrow. Can't sully the Lord's day with burning a witch." He mused.

Jean felt his heart sink, his entire body feeling like it'd been thrust into a bath of ice.

Burned. Burned.

He bolted for the door, ignoring his father's shouts, narrowly missing the hands that darted out to grab him as he all but flung himself down the steps, panicking at the door till he managed to slam it open, scurrying out and sprinting down the street as fast as he could.

It hurt. It hurt worse than he could imagine. He had the growing suspicion that one of his ribs was broken, but he kept the thought from his mind, because all he had time to think of was Marco. Sweet Marco who wasn't even fighting, just letting himself be dragged across the path, his feet leaving tracks that Jean followed carefully.

He wondered if Joan was on his heels, but found he didn't care as he neared the Bodt home, pausing for a moment to toss his head about. It hurt, the action feeling as if it was rattling his brain itself around. But the splitting headache was forgotten when he heard the cry of pain, the voice that had been whispering affections to him only the night before.

Rushing towards the noise was foolish. He had no plan, and had not prepared himself to see. To see Marco so battered, already so broken after so little time, already not himself anymore.

A plan would have been wise, but Jean wasn't the wisest person, as his entire life seemed to prove. All he really had was himself, so he draped his own body over Marco's, fully prepared to take the blows for him. Because he would rather it be him, would take Marco's place a hundred times. Because Marco had so much to live for, when all Jean had to live for was Marco. Because Marco had taught him how to live, and he would die for that.

But the blows stopped coming when it was him, and he realized how truly privileged he was, but choked when he realized that they were saving him for his father, knowing that punishment from him would be harsher than anything they could do.

As things went silent, he felt Marco breathing beneath him, the air coming labored, the exhale shuddery.

"Jean?" He murmured, voice small, and it brought fresh tears to the boy's eyes.

"Yes, Marco, yes." He whispered, shifting so his protective stance was more of an embrace, finding Marco's face and cradling it in his hands. He couldn't open one of his eyes, the flesh already swelling from what looked to have been a particularly nasty blow. And the one he could open was barely a dull chocolate color, unfocused. He was still beautiful. "I love you, Marco. I love you. So much." He sobbed, burying his face in the other's shoulder, holding him tighter than he should have, considering their respective conditions.

Marco inhaled deeply, then coughed a few times, spitting out a bit of blood, and Jean hoped to every god he'd ever heard the name of that the blood was just from his mouth, not somewhere more important.

"I'm sorry." Marco sighed, arms fumbling weakly to cling to Jean's back, fingers sliding in the fabric of his shirt.

"Don't say that." Jean hissed.

"I'm sorry, Jean. I love you." Marco repeated, his eye fluttering open, as if the motion was draining. Jean shook his head, his whole body shook.

"Don't you dare say goodbye." He warned, glaring at one of the men crowded around them that had dared take a step forward, as if daring him to take away from their short time left together. He took a step back, glancing around at the others with uncertainty. It seemed none of them were really sure what to do, since they apparently had reservations about laying a hand on Jean, despite his equal guilt.

"What did he ever do to you?" Jean demanded suddenly, addressing the crowd. "Who was bothered by us being together?" He screamed, hugging the other tighter against his chest. "None of you even knew until today! And what does it matter? So what if we're going to hell? That's our problem!" He seethed.

They seemed taken aback that he'd begun screaming at them. Like it was the last thing they'd expected.

"It's not like we're going to rub off on you! What right do you have to decide whether or not we ought to be condemned to death? And if you plan to burn him, then why not me? We're guilty of the same crime." He pointed out, ignoring Marco when he made a noise of protest.

"I just… I don't understand. How can you really think that love is wrong?" He croaked, looking down and staring at the boy in his lap, their eyes locking as much as possible with Marco's unfocused gaze.

It was silent until Joan stomped up, a bit out of breath, wrenching Jean away without care for his crushing grip. But Jean didn't even have it in him to yelp, just holding on as long as he could, so numb already that he couldn't even cry as he was pulled away from Marco, a dry sob heaving out as the other was dragged away yet again.

Joan didn't give him the chance to escape, easily seizing him and dragging him just as gracelessly back towards the house, throwing him inside the door without fanfare. He heard his mother gasp, scurrying towards the entryway at the sound. She froze as she took in the scene, falling to her knees with a thump.

"Oh, Jean-" She breathed, her fingers reaching to brush his hair aside.

"A sodomite." Joan hissed, her fingers freezing just before meeting the skin of her son's forehead. Her eyes went wide, and her lips fell open, brows knit.

"No-" She began, but Joan didn't let her finish, landing a kick against the boy's thigh. Jean couldn't do much more than flinch and groan, too drained to scream anymore.

"Joan, please, just-" His mother began again.

"No, no more! He's lucky he's not dead! I'm going to make him wish he were!" He growled, rolling his sleeves up. But he halted his motions when his wife slipped between them, holding her arms out.

"Please. Leave him be. He's hurt enough." She plead, tears gathering in her eyes. And, as harsh a man as he might have been, not even Joan could stand to see her cry that way. He spat distastefully on the floor, stomping towards the sitting room while shooting Jean a withering glare the whole time.

It was still till they heard the sofa shift under the man's weight, then his mother turned, disbelief written on her face.

"What were you thinking, Jean?" She demanded. But she received nothing more than a haunted, empty stare. "What's gotten into you? Answer me!"

But he didn't, couldn't. He wasn't even looking at her. He knew she was before him, but all that flooded his vision was Marco's crumpled body, looking small for the first time, laying in the field of wildflowers almost as if they'd known that was where they had loved.

Now the flowers were stained, and the place would never be the soothing oasis it had come to be during their time together. He held no hope for either of them, but even if there was any, that place would never be the same.

"Jean!" His mother snapped, shaking his shoulder. He winced, letting out a sharp hiss. His rib was definitely broken. She stopped, cupping his face and drawing it up to look at her. He saw the concern, the love, but he couldn't explain, couldn't return the sentiment. "Please. I need to know what's happening." She begged.

His mind raced for answers to questions he wasn't sure he had been asked, but the only answer he could find was Marco. Marco. Marco.

"I love him." He whispered, his tears finally renewed, carving hot trails down his cheeks, blurring his vision.

His mother only looked more confused, and more distressed.

"Who, Jean? Who?"

And, finally, his mind knew the right answer.

"Marco." He sobbed. "Marco, Marco, Marco!"

She stilled, whole body stiff as she deciphered the crazed mumbling. She knew. Everyone knew when a Bodt was mentioned.

"Oh Jean, why? Why him?" She lamented after a pause, biting her lip raw. "Why did it have to be him?"

Because it had always been him. It would always be him. There was no one else for Jean, and he didn't want anyone else. Because before Marco, he'd been surviving. Because Marco had shown him how to live.

"I love him." He repeated sternly, wrapping himself in his own arms since his mother wasn't making a move to do so herself. "They're going to burn him. They're killing him." He hiccupped, the verbalization making it all the more real.

She couldn't respond, and he just cried for a long while, burying his face in his arms.

"They're killing him." He repeated. "I'm-He's dying."

She didn't know what he meant. She couldn't. She didn't know that they were perfect. She didn't know that he couldn't live without Marco. She didn't know that there was a difference between surviving and living. She didn't understand that, all his life, he'd been waiting for freckles and drunken eyes, for kisses and lazy afternoons, for twined fingers and wildflowers. She didn't know that, without his life, he couldn't live.

"Jean, I'm going to make you some tea." She announced, pursing her lips and standing up. "We'll talk about this when you calm down." She added, a little more gently.

But he wouldn't calm down. Maybe she knew that. But then, maybe she didn't. But it didn't matter, because she stood up and walked into the kitchen. He heard her put the kettle on, then heard her trotting into the parlor. He heard her sit, presumably with Joan. Maybe she was trying to calm him down. Maybe she was admitting that there was no hope for their son, and that they should just burn him along with the witch boy.

It didn't matter.

Because he was gone. With no shoes on, no gold buckles weighing his feet down, he was silent, and he was halfway to the Bodt house before anyone even had a chance of knowing he'd gone.

He didn't know why he ran that way. He knew they wouldn't want to see him. He knew they'd hate him for damning their son. He knew they'd throw him out or curse him or give him bruises to match Marco's. But he needed to see them.

The door shook under his fists, and his nervousness and adrenaline made it impossible for him to stop banging until the door swung open, and he was quickly pulled inside, the deadbolt locking behind him.

It was Mrs. Bodt that had opened the door, but a vast majority of the family began flooding towards the front of the house once Jean was inside. He wondered what they'd do, but knew he wouldn't fight them, whatever it was. If they wanted to kill him, then so be it. A life for a life.

But no, they did something worse. They embraced him. They cried, and got out bandages for the gashes left by his father, and sat him on the sofa, and rocked him till he stopped sobbing. Marie petted his hair as Mrs. Bodt hummed sadly, arms warm around his frame. Mr. Bodt smoked his pipe slowly, frowning through the whole affair.

Once the sobs had subsided, Jean opened his mouth. He needed to apologize. He needed to tell them that he never meant for this, that it was his fault, that Marco didn't deserve any of this. But they didn't let him get a word out.

"Don't you say you're sorry." Mrs. Bodt warned, face tired but stern. Jean's voice cracked as his words morphed into simple air. "Don't ever be sorry for loving him." She grit out, rubbing her eyes for a moment.

Jean's lip trembled, but he nodded, looking at the ceiling. He needed words, he had to speak. They deserved that much.

"I-"

Nothing followed, though his lips moved wordlessly. They looked at him expectantly, and it only made it harder. But he had to speak.

"I… I don't want him to-" Another hiccup of a sob. "I don't want him to die." He finally managed, heart sinking. There was a murmur amongst the Bodts as Mrs. Bodt took over for Marie and carded her fingers through his hair.

Mrs. Bodt had clearly been trying to put him to sleep, maybe to help him escape his worries and fears, even if just for a moment. But he was too hyped to find sleep. His mind raced with thoughts of Marco, of what he could do, of what anyone could do. He should have been exhausted, all things considered.

But he wasn't.

He let her pet his hair for a while, let her sooth him, hoped that it soothed her in turn. But after a while, he sat up, brow set and lips pursed against the pain.

His body ached. He was bruised, and he had no doubt anymore that at least one rib was broken. But he didn't have time to dwell on his pain. Marco had it worse, he had to remind himself. So much worse.

Looking around, he found the Bodts still amassed, all looking scared, sad, and unsure. They looked like he felt. But he couldn't afford to dwell on it, couldn't allow himself to fall into dysfunction because of how he felt. Right now, he needed action. He needed to move. He needed to help Marco.

He wasn't taking this laying down. Marco had never been wrong before. But he couldn't afford not to try.

"I need help." He admitted. They looked at him, the words jarring after so much silent grief. He wasn't ready to grieve just yet. "I need to save him." He explained. They all clearly thought he was crazy, but they kept their thoughts to themselves.

He thought to himself for a long while after that, mind racing for ideas on just how he could do that.

"Jean," Mrs. Bodt began, voice soft, as if afraid she might startle him. "They won't let you near him." She pointed out. She sounded hopeless.

Jean stood, walking for a moment before realizing he had no idea where he planned on going. He wound up pacing in front of the fireplace, though there was no fire lit.

He couldn't physically get to Marco. If it was that simple, he'd already have done it. What he needed was a way to get everyone away. To give him just long enough to free him and carry him away. But what would draw them away?

Mr. Bodt looked worried that, left to his own devices, Jean would wear a hole in the floor. He nudged the younger man out of the way and lit a fire, not so much for warmth, but more as a way to deter Jean from pacing there.

Jean watched as the wood caught, tendrils of smoke eventually followed by licking orange flames. It made him shudder to think that, in just a few hours, those flames would be clawing at his love.

His eyes went wide.

"Do you have any oil?" He asked. Again, they all turned to look at him, his voice crashing through the silence. After a pause, he repeated himself. "Oil. Any kind. Lamp oil, cooking oil, anything that'll catch."

They were hesitant, but then got to work looking around the house, returning with anything they found. In the end, it was quite a large amount, and he was glad for that. It was enough for what he needed, but too much for him to do on his own.

"Will anyone come with me? It'll be tonight, when it's dark. I can't carry all of this by myself." He admitted, looking from face to face.

After a moment of hesitation, Arturo nodded, taking a few steps closer. He was joined soon after by Nardo, and then one of the girls, Mona, stepped up too. Jean nodded, looking over his assembled team.

"Thank you." He offered, doing his best to smile at them, hoping to show his true appreciation since words never failed to fail him. "But I want you all to know what you're getting into. If we get caught… We'll be in a lot of trouble. And I… Well, I'm sure it's obvious, but I can't guarantee your safety. So if you go with me, just… Just know that you're in danger. I know I have no right to ask that of you, but, if you still want to help…" He trailed, frowning awkwardly. He'd never really been good at conversing with people, let alone trying to lead them into what might indeed prove to be incredible danger.

But they only looked more ready, gazes hardening from the uncertainty of the previous moment.

He's our brother.

They didn't have to say it. It was written in their expressions. He was their brother, obviously a family favorite judging by the way they all picked on him. It was written in the way they all gathered to weep for the loss of such a precious light in their lives. It was in the way little Marie surged forward to join her brothers and sister.

Jean smiled, getting down on his knee to be at her level.

"Marie, thank you for volunteering, but I don't think you should come along." He admitted. Her cute face wrinkled into a pout, her freckles, so much like Marco's, folding into the minute creases.

"I can help!" She insisted, stamping her foot, to little effect.

The blonde sighed, sitting fully on the ground and reaching out to wrap his arms around the little girl, pulling her to him for an embrace. Though she was different, she had so many quirks similar to Marco's and it hurt, ached to hold her. But it also reminded him why he needed to be brave.

"Yes, you can, Marie. You can help by making sure that Marco's things are all packed up, so that I can take him away." He offered. She drew back, looking at him with illy-veiled curiosity. Jean's smile strained, but he held fast.

"Where are you taking him?" She demanded, bottom lip drawn forward.

He hadn't really thought of it. They couldn't stay here, not anymore. That much was painfully clear, and his mind grasped onto that, claws deep. But where could they go? He wished he'd thought about escape before, wished he'd thought that far ahead.

He wished he had any idea what he was doing.

Mrs. Bodt put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

"His cousin, Ymir, she's our closest relative that would help you. She lives a few towns to the east, working at the local tavern. If you can get him," They both grimaced at the staggering twinge induced by the indefinite 'if.' "Then you should take him there. She'll be able to put you two up for a good while, and she'll be happy to do it if you explain the situation." She promised. "Just ask at the tavern for her."

Jean gave her the best smile he could muster, standing up to give her a hug. She didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around him, crushing him tightly to her chest, her desperate hope bleeding through where their bodies met.

She wanted him to succeed. She was scared to hope, though.

"I want to help!" Marie cried, effectively regaining the attention she'd lost in the short moment. Jean returned to her level, his gaze more determined.

"Then please, Marie, get everything ready." He plead. "Find a bag, and pack all of the important things Marco will need; His clothes, some food, anything that is precious to him-" He trailed, hoping she got the idea. Her brows furrowed, though, and she tilted her head, eyes trailing his form as if examining him.

"…I don't think you'll fit in a sack." She commented. It took Jean a moment to understand what she meant, but when he did, his heart warmed, melting just a bit at the ice that had set in the moment Marco had been stolen from him. A few of the Bodts laughed, but Marie didn't seem to understand what was so funny, her cheeks filling with air as she returned to pouting.

Jean grinned, tilting her chin up with a finger.

"Can you pack everything else?" He hoped, holding her stare until, begrudgingly, she nodded.

"You better save him." She warned, taking a step back.

With that, she scurried off up the stairs, likely to get started on her task. It was a relief that she'd agreed without too much argument. Jean felt bad for sending her away, but he couldn't keep track of someone so small and young, and didn't dare to be responsible for her tiny life.

Mrs. Bodt seemed thankful, squeezing his shoulder yet again. He nodded her way, then gestured for Arturo, Nardo, and Mona to gather closer. They did, huddling to his side and taking a seat, eyes wide and ears open.

It wasn't a very elaborate plan, but Jean hoped that it'd be effective anyway. There wasn't much they could do with so little time to prepare, and so little time to execute. Once the sun rose, everything needed to be done, ready. If even one mistake was made, it might cost Marco his life.

After explaining the task at hand, Jean shooed the children to their rooms to find the darkest clothing they had, trotting over to the entryway and looking out the window as the Bodts resumed some semblance of life. Little feet moved across the floor, some of the girls shuffling into the kitchen to prepare a meal of sorts, though it was doubtful that anyone felt much like eating.

Mr. Bodt smoked his pipe, free hand gently stroking the back of his wife's in soft circles. Mrs. Bodt allowed herself to be comforted as she tutted at the children speaking to each other too loudly. There was life inside.

But outside was eerily silent, still. Even the fields seemed to cease their swaying. Jean would have expected someone to be keeping watch on the house, for Joan to be storming up the sidewalk to drag him through the doorway and finally beat the very breath out of him.

No one came. Nothing moved. There was not a sound to be heard outside the walls.

Jean should have been thankful, should have been comforted by the stillness. It only unsettled him.

They were confident. So confident that they'd scared the Pagans into submission that they weren't even bothering to monitor them. While that was to Jean's advantage, it still bothered him. Because he knew they had every right to be confident. One misstep, and everything would fall apart.

He came away from the window, his back sliding against the wall as his body dropped to the floor, hands coming to tangle in his hair while his head bowed to rest against his knees. It made his ribs hurt something awful, but it was still too comforting a position for him to shift.

It was still easy to detect the movement around him. He felt it when Nardo came to sit by him, knowing without even looking up who it was and what they were doing. The younger boy, after a moment of hesitation, wedged his way between all of Jean's tangled limbs, pressing to him in an unsure bid for comfort.

It dawned on the older that Marco had been the emotional epicenter of the Bodt family. While the Bodts were, by no means, an emotionally reserved family, it was clear in the way that they were keeping mostly to themselves that they weren't used to seeking comfort in each other. But all people need someone they can go to to cry without facing judgment. Someone who will just hold them and share a soft moment of sorrow or frustration, no questions asked.

Without Marco, his siblings were unsure of what to do with their grief, their anxiety. And, while Jean might not have been anything close to a reasonable substitute, he let the boy press his face into the fabric of his shirt, held him loosely while his frame shook, patted his back to help alleviate the tension building as the night grew closer and closer, chasing the sun away with the darkness of a graciously new moon.

Nardo was joined by Mona, who sat down to Jean's right, pressing against his side. She didn't cry, but she clung, her bare toes flexing idly.

They were some of the older children. Not the oldest, but old enough to keep their wits about them. And, like Marco, they were old beyond their years.

But they were still children. Jean was ashamed to ask them to put themselves in danger, was ashamed that he was a very large part of the reason they shook with tears and nerves. But still, he respected their need to help their brother. He might not have had siblings of his own, but he was coming to grasp at the bond the relationship innately created.

Once dusk had passed and the night pressed in, thick and black, Jean got up, his three companions trailing behind and helping him to divide up the oil into four roughly-equal portions. They each took one, determination taking over where anxiousness and uncertainty had been only moments prior.

They paused for only a moment to say goodbye to the family, each receiving a kiss to the temple from Mrs. Bodt before scurrying through the door and out into the brisk chill of the early-fall night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While it gets harder and harder the longer it goes on, I am determined to complete this story. I'm so close! I've sort of distanced myself from SnK, to be honest. I still really love it, and these boys, but it's not really on my mind much lately. Still, I've got to finish what I start.
> 
> As a reward to anyone who is actually still waiting for my slow ass updates, I combined two chapters into one update for you guys, so it's a little lengthy this time. Someday I'll get better at writing densely, but today is not that day omo.
> 
> I'm actually really uncomfortable with this section. It's meant to feel abrupt, but maybe I went a little overboard. Some people mentioned the imagery of the last chapter, namely with the moth, and I was surprised how positively it was taken. The previous chapter was actually stuffed to the brim with death omens. It did make for a pretty scene atmosphere though, hmm?
> 
> Thanks for sticking it out with me, my lingering readers. We'll get through this together, probably.
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや


	21. Carolina Roses

Jean hated Mondays. It was the first day of the week. It meant going back to work, getting up early, facing an entire week. But he'd never hated a Monday quite as much as the one he was currently being faced with.

He hadn't slept. No matter how much Mrs. Bodt tried to coax him into it, and no matter how much Marco's scent clung to the sheets, he couldn't reason with his mind. It raced a mile a minute, trying to calculate every outcome of the day that was slowly being birthed at the eastern horizon.

Each minute, the sun rose a bit more, as did Jean's anxiety.

If things went entirely in his favor, then Marco would be safe. They'd stop for his bag of things, and then be gone before the town even knew what happened. He hoped that the people would be rattled enough to leave the rest of the Bodts alone. It wasn't as if they could burn an entire family at the stake for no reason.

His concern was Marco. He felt he couldn't breathe in the boy's absence, yet forced himself to in order to even have a chance at having him again.

Too many times his mind had wandered to the darkest of places. What would he do if he couldn't save Marco? There were so many options, yet they felt absurd to him. Life without Marco, now that he'd had him, wouldn't really be life at all.

He tried to steer himself from that line of thinking, though, tugging the reigns harshly in the opposite direction so that maybe the pain would remind him not to venture that way again.

The Bodts woke with the sun, noise starting up downstairs and filtering up to Marco's bed. While he hadn't slept, Jean hadn't had an excuse to get out of bed until the noise roused him. He got up and went down to help with any chores that were deemed important enough to do despite the events everyone knew were soon to come.

Mrs. Bodt made breakfast, but it was picked at. No one could stomach more than a few bites. Jean helped her pack it up for storage, so the food wouldn't go to waste. By the time everything was cleared away, without even speaking, they each knew it was time to go.

Jean left first, a stream of freckled faces falling in line behind him. He bet, as they walked through town, that they looked something like a funeral procession. That's what it felt like, certainly. He tried to keep his head high, though, even as townspeople looked at him, and his entourage, as if they were Satan's spawn.

The post office came into view, and with it came the familiar, fear-inducing tree. It was ironic, now that he thought of it, that the tree would be in his own front yard; Something that caused him such fear, so close to the bed he slept in.

But the tree wasn't what he feared the most, in that moment. The sturdy wooden stake that had been plunged into the soft earth of the main square was. It didn't look to be well sanded, and Jean shuddered to think of how many splinters Marco likely already had.

How long had the boy been tied there? The stake hadn't been there the night before when Jean and a few of the Bodt children had snuck out, so not all night. Jean still hoped it wasn't long, his lips already trembling as he imagined the strain it must be putting on all the broken bones and dark bruises. Marco, however, didn't even seem to have the energy to cry or complain, his body leaning forward and slumped as much as the rope tied about his body would allow.

He heard Mrs. Bodt sob. He felt Marie tuck her little hand into his. He felt Nardo fist a hand in his shirt. He felt his own tears slip from his eyes.

No matter how successfully their plan might go, there was no denying how horrible this sight was. To see such a beautiful person reduced to a broken shell, so shattered he'd lost the ability to even lift his head and seek help, was painful, endlessly so.

Jean squeezed Marie's hand, reaching around and pulling Nardo before him, kneeling down so he was on their level.

"I need you to go stand with your father, alright?" He requested, voice soft. Nardo nodded, and Marie sniffled. Jean petted her hair, giving both of their shoulders one last squeeze before herding them in the right direction.

He met Mr. Bodt's eye for a moment as the man accepted the two children into the huddle of terrified, wide eyes that was his family. The man offered a nod, maybe acceptance, maybe encouragement. It didn't matter which, really. One way or another, something drastic was going to happen.

Jean, after taking a breath, surged forward, closer to the front. No one stopped him, parting to make a way for him in fact. And he realized, as he neared, that he was meant to be at the forefront. Joan waited for him. He could feel the eyes he'd inherited from his father on him as he picked his way closer.

He didn't cower when he stood beside the man. He didn't hide his tears. He didn't turn his gaze from the one he loved. Because, honestly, what more could his father take from him?

He wasn't afraid.

Not for himself, anyway. Because this wasn't about him. This was about Marco, battered, broken Marco who still managed to notice their proximity, who fought to lift his head, to see Jean before him.

Jean wished he could reach out, could help Marco lift his head, could cradle his tired body and promise that everything would be alright, that, for once in his life, he'd been wrong.

He couldn't promise that just yet, but he hoped his eyes could communicate his determination.

Joan did not seem pleased to be ignored, and probably would have given him a bruise for the trouble if his wife wasn't clinging to his arm, and the town didn't have their eyes trained on his son so carefully. He settled for a low growl, taking a few steps forward till he stood beside Marco, though at a safe distance. He wouldn't want to get infected, after all.

"Word travels fast in this town, so I'm sure you are all aware why we're here." He barked. The mayor joined him where he stood, before the crowd, wringing his hands. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want this blood on his hands.

The town didn't want this blood on their hands, not really. Burning people alive based on mere accusations was messy, something frowned upon by all that heard the tale second hand. Only recently, they'd shaken their heads in response to stories of Salem. They'd tutted, and prayed for the souls of the murderers who took lives based solely on the claims of a few young girls.

No one wanted their souls damned by taking very-possibly innocent life. No one wanted to be prayed for.

But no one dared to speak out against the few that were malicious enough to press forward. Not even the mayor could work up the courage to remind Joan of his place. He was afraid. They were all afraid.

"For those unsure, though, allow me to clarify." Joan continued. No one argued.

"This witch-" He spat, nodding jerkily at Marco who could only let out a shuddering sigh of protest. "Who we have allowed to live here peacefully, has corrupted one of our own."

Jean didn't care that every pair of eyes was on him. Only one pair mattered to him in that moment, and he held Marco's gaze with as much power as he could. The alcohol color was muddied, darker with doubt that his weakened body had allowed to creep into his mind.

Had he done something wrong? Had he really hurt someone? Was Jean worse off on his behalf?

Jean watched the thoughts flit behind the gaze, his brows knitting as he fought down the desperate desire to deny it, to reassure the only person he could say he loved every part of.

He just barely managed it.

"A sodomite. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one that turned our old postmaster." Joan sneered.

Jean took a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He had to remain calm, and he knew it. He couldn't afford to let his father's words tempt him into an action that would only condemn Marco further.

"Does anyone have anything to say on the witch's behalf?" Joan dared. It wasn't a question, it was a trap. No one took the bait. Joan looked satisfied, his eyes trained on his son who stood stiff, fists clenched at his sides. "I didn't think so."

There was a long silence that bore down on the crowd. The air felt heavy, made it hard to breathe. Everyone just stopped trying as the sound of a flint rung out, sparks flying a few times before he managed to light some kindling that was placed without remorse among the wood that had been amassed at Marco's feet.

Jean bristled, watching it catch, small flames licking up the logs, closer and closer to Marco's feet with each moment that passed by in semi-silence. The crackling of fire and the sobs of Mrs. Bodt managed to find voice, but everyone else was quiet, afraid to look but unable to look away.

He urged the flame to move the right way. He fought every muscle in his body that screamed at him to move, to cut the ropes away, gather Marco to his chest, and run. No. He had to wait.

It only got harder, though, as the fire grew closer, and Marco finally managed to get a sound past his lips, a distressed cry as he, unquestionably, felt the heat. His feet were bare and dangerously close to the flames that continued to grow at an exponential rate.

Wait.

He had to. No matter how much it hurt to hear Marco's increasingly pained noises. No matter how much his body ached to tear into those ropes. No matter how much it broke his heart to simply stand there and watch.

Wait.

He had to wait till it caught. Why it'd taken so long, he didn't know. But he couldn't start moving till the damned oil caught. No matter how much Marco sobbed. Because if he moved now, it was all for naught. Joan would catch him, make him watch as the flames consumed his love.

Wait.

He could see the skin reddening, blistering. Marco wouldn't be able to walk for a long time, broken bones or not. Jean was going to have to carry him. If he could only just get him down, though, he imagined he could carry Marco's weight by five.

It caught. Finally. And, just like water through a canal, the flame raced along the invisible trails of oil, surrounding the square and slicing between the crowd, the burning tendrils earning a fair amount of shouts and shrieks as people leapt back and dodged out of the way.

He was glad the oil hadn't sunken into the earth too much to catch, and breathed a sigh of relief, likely the only one in the chaos he'd created. But chaos was exactly what he needed to distract from his actions as he bolted to Marco, slicing through the ropes with a knife he'd borrowed from the Bodt kitchen and pulling the boy away from the fire before anyone could even get enough of a grip to know what was going on.

Don't wait.

Marco was heavy, but Jean was happy for the weight. Almost as happy as he was to hear Marco's soft groan. It was pained, yes, but also recognizing. He knew who was hobbling away with him. And he somehow found enough strength to wrap his arms around Jean's shoulders, clinging for what he knew to be his life.

Jean could hear his father calling after him. He imagined the man racing after him. But he wouldn't catch up. He couldn't. Jean wouldn't let him. He hadn't come this far to lose everything. It was his turn to be the brave one, and that meant putting one foot in front of the other until this damned town they'd called home was so far behind them that they couldn't even remember what colors the leaves in the trees were when they left.

He didn't look back as he bolted into the forest line, tracing paths that had become familiar from walking them with Marco's fingers laced in his. Paths his father didn't know. Paths his father couldn't follow. Not for long.

Sure enough, when he found himself too out of breath to keep sprinting, and he stopped to catch it, he didn't hear thundering footsteps or seething rage. Just his own breath, the rustling of the leaves, and Marco's soft sighs.

Thankful for the brief moment of rest, he carefully slid Marco down to the ground, his lips drawing into a deep frown as the other boy winced and let out a pained little whine.

"I'm so, so sorry, Marco." He breathed, maneuvering until he could gently pull Marco's head onto his lap, combing his fingers through dark locks.

Marco's hair was sweaty, and Jean's fingers came away spotted with dark flecks of ash that stuck with the moisture. It only made tears prick at his eyes.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry that I'm so cowardly. I just… I couldn't… I had to be sure-"He rambled.

Even in his state, Marco managed to hush him, his lips rounding as the hiss of air came out. Jean didn't need to be told twice, and Marco deserved a moment of rest more than anyone. So he kept quiet, satisfied to just press his ear to Marco's chest and listen to the beating of his heart until he could breathe again.

When he'd managed, he got back to his feet and, after struggling with the weight that he'd just carried with apparent ease, began the trek to the hollowed-out tree where he'd had Marie hide the bag she'd packed them.

Marco felt heavier, but that was probably just because Jean wasn't running, literally, on adrenaline. His pace slowed considerably, but he kept to it, panting with the effort, but resolved to carry Marco as far as he had to.

When he got to the tree he was looking for, he let himself rest again. He realized he was in for one hell of a trip if he had to carry Marco several towns over. As resolved as he was to do what he had to do, he could feel some dread cropping up. It was going to take forever.

Maybe he could stop and somehow acquire a cart in the next town. It'd be easier to lug Marco around that way than actually carrying him. It'd be easier on Marco too, he reasoned. But it dawned on him how very little money they had. That being none. And it would be hard to pay for a cart without money.

He just about jumped out of his skin when he heard footsteps.

Who was following them? Hadn't they lost Joan? He'd thought so. Had he thought wrong?

He calmed down, but also stiffened when he saw it was his mother, not his father. Why? How?

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, his voice sounding harsher than he'd meant it to. But he didn't apologize, curling himself protectively around Marco, eyes trained on his mother.

She managed a small, sad-looking smile. She'd been crying. His heart hurt at the thought.

"I… Well, you'll need a pack." She reasoned, producing a small bag and holding it out to him. "I packed you some food, and a few of your things. I would have brought more, but they started to get the fire out, and I'm sure they'll be doing a better job of trying to find you two once they do." She added, glancing down at Marco.

Jean narrowed his eyes, looking between her and the bag.

"…Why did you come? How did you know where to find me?" He asked. She winced.

"I-" She paused, letting out a shuddering sigh. "I regret the way you were raised." She admitted, biting her lip as her eyes glassed over with fresh tears. "I never really stopped your father from… Well, I knew he was being too cruel, but I just… I wanted to think it would get better. I tried to understand."

She was rambling, and Jean urged her forward with his expression.

"Sorry. It's just… I still love you, Jean. Even if I can't agree with what you're doing." She confessed, sparing another glance at Marco. It didn't look as disgusted as it used to. "I… I know you love him, and I know I can't stop you. And your father went too far. And I want you to be safe. I know that can't happen here. So I want to help you get somewhere where you can be." She finished, taking the last few steps towards her son, settling down onto her knees. She passed him the bag, holding on a little too long when their hands brushed.

"I said as much to the Bodt woman. She told me where you'd be." She added. "I would have been here sooner, but I got turned around. I haven't been in these woods since I was your age."

Jean bit his lip, looking anywhere but her face. He wanted to cry into her shoulder like the child he was, but he had to be the strong one this time. Strong for his mother. Strong for Marco. Strong for himself.

"Thank you." He offered, shouldering the bag. She nodded, sniffling.

"And, um-" Her breath hitched. "You remember your Aunt and Uncle? The ones with the farm?" She inquired. His brows furrowed, not sure where she was going with this, but he nodded anyway. "Well, they've moved away since the kids all grew and left. The fields weren't worth anything anymore, though, so no one moved in. And a lot of their old farming tools are there." She offered. "You might find something useful. I won't promise anything, but they had that old cart you and Hitch liked to play with-"

Oh.

He found himself unable to help but wrap her up in an embrace, pressing his nose into her hair for one last breath of his childhood home.

"Thank you." He breathed.

She let out a little sob, pushing him away.

"You'll be there before sunup if you don't stop to sleep." She offered, standing up. Jean nodded, doing his best to do the same, Marco in tow. The weight seemed a little less with the hope that he wouldn't have to carry it for quite as long a time.

He paused, hauling the other pack out of the tree and shouldering that as well, then pressed a kiss to her cheek before he turned to begin his trek again.

"When you get a bit further away," She called, and he paused. He could tell she was stalling, but he couldn't help but oblige her. "There's some salve in that bag that might help his burns a little, at least."

Jean let himself turn around one more time, feeling himself split in two. Part of him desperately wanted to stay with his mother, to hold her and protect her and explain how much of a part she'd played in the majority of his good memories.

But another part, a larger part, made sure he knew he couldn't be apart from Marco. He couldn't even think it. So he settled with taking a few extra steps so he could press a kiss to his mother's temple.

When had she gotten so small? Once, he'd had to reach to fist his hands in her skirts. Now he had to stoop to reach her forehead.

"…Take care of yourself." He requested, holding her stare for a moment and trying to squeeze everything he wanted to say into his gaze. He didn't know whether she could read it, but he didn't have time to ask, and he didn't let himself turn back around as he walked further into the forest. Not even as he heard her breath hitch, and the sobs rise up in her throat.

He had to be strong. Stronger than his fear. Stronger than his father.

Stronger than his mother's tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive, I think? It's been weird. I'm still trying. Sorry.


	22. Chrysanthemums

Jean felt about ready to die by the time he finally managed to find the old barn his mother had mentioned. He couldn't even bring himself to root around for the cart he was hoping to find, barely managing to set Marco down before he collapsed himself.

So, as much as he'd thought he'd carry Marco to the ends of the Earth, he was realizing that he, physically, had limits.

Marco definitely weighed more than him, so it was a miracle he'd managed thus far. And his body was definitely not pleased with all the exertion.

He deemed the barn safe enough, so he let himself lie in misery for a few minutes, just huffing and glaring at the caving ceiling, daring it to cause him any sort of trouble. It, thankfully, didn't, and he was left to wallow in peace.

After a brief moment of respite, though, he forced himself up, dragging himself to Marco's side. The other boy seemed to be asleep, considering how blank his expression was. If he was awake, he'd be grimacing. Jean didn't know if he'd really just dozed off, or if the pain had been enough that he'd lost consciousness, but either way, he was thankful.

For a moment, he just watched, pushing the sweaty bangs from Marco's face as his chest rose and fell steadily. He let it calm him, let it steady his aching, quivering muscles. Because it'd been worth it. Marco was alive. Marco was with him. Marco had been wrong.

He reached for the pack his mother had given him, fishing around until his fingers found a jar, which he pulled out, taking the top off and sniffing to make sure it was, indeed, the salve that she'd mentioned, and not some strange jam.

When the herbal smell met his nose, he set the jar aside, searching again until he found some clothing she'd packed for him. He ripped the shirt without much thought or care, forcing himself to his protesting feet with a creak in his muscles and hobbling out towards the river that trailed behind the barn, soaking the pieces of the shirt as much as he could before returning.

With Marco still asleep, he tried to work quickly, cleaning the burns and scrapes that he found as well as he could with his limited supplies, glad the other wasn't awake to feel the pain.

It reminded him that his exhaustion was nothing compared to what Marco was dealing with. What was some physical exertion and a possibly broken rib in comparison to Marco's battered, burned, broken body? It was nothing.

He dipped his fingers into the salve, feeling the coolness for a moment before applying it to the worst of the damage, mostly Marco's feet. They really were starting to blister, and it made Jean cringe, but he persevered. If Marco could survive receiving the burns, Jean could survive treating them.

Once he'd done all he could think of, he let himself settle back in, pressing himself to Marco's side, curling there but not letting any of his weight truly fall on the other boy, scared to worsen any internal injuries. He'd have to be satisfied with just the faintest of contact.

They'd have to stop somewhere and have Marco's bones set. Get him proper medicine, proper bandages. But he had no money. What doctor would treat a penniless patient?

Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes, pressing his nose into Marco's shirt, inhaling. It smelled like smoke and ash and death. But he found what he was looking for, the cinnamon, the chamomile, the sweat. He found Marco underneath the smell of fear and despair. It was enough, coupled with his physical fatigue, to drag him into sleep, albeit fitful.

It didn't last long, though, for Marco stirred at some point in the afternoon, waking with a groan and a pitiful whine of pain before realizing that Jean was curled against him. The sound roused him, and he blinked blearily in the sunlight that shone through the holes in the roof.

Marco quieted himself down, but he couldn't help some muffled sobs as he was reacquainted with his agony. The sound made Jean want to cry, but he fought it down in favor of brushing his fingers through Marco's bangs again, letting him know he wasn't alone, however small a comfort that might be.

The darker boy managed to silence himself, only a soft whimper escaping if he shifted too much. Jean kissed his forehead, unsure of what he could really do other than be there. If only he could take the pain away. He'd deal with it himself if he could only relieve Marco.

"Mmm, Jean-" Marco murmured, wincing. Jean hushed him, but went ignored. "Jean, where are we?" He asked, voice weak and eyes still closed.

Jean sat back, running a hand through his own hair now.

"Just the next town over." He offered softly, finding Marco's fingers and giving them a small squeeze, grateful that it didn't seem to cause any apparent pain, so perhaps he'd managed without any broken digits.

He watched Marco's brow furrow, confusion flitting over his features.

"W-Why?" He inquired.

Oh. Right. Marco didn't know. Marco hadn't been there to hear the plan. Marco didn't know that he probably wouldn't see his family again for a very long time, if ever.

Jean felt like he was swallowing stones.

He couldn't bring himself to reply, not for a long time. He watched as confusion melted into an expression of concern, but still, his lips couldn't form the words he needed to say.

"Jean?" Marco prompted, fighting to get his eyes open.

With a sigh, Jean set about explaining things. Unable to find a way to make it sound better than it was, he just let the words tumble from his lips, as they always did.

Every emotion known to man flitted across Marco's features; shock, fear, grief, regret, relief, hopelessness, hope. Jean read each one, and let himself hurt, knowing he was the one that put them on Marco's face.

He was quiet for a long time, and even when he took a breath to respond, it was delayed as it hitched and he ground his teeth against the pain. Eventually he managed to get his words out, though.

"Are they alright?" He asked. Jean didn't have to ask who he was talking about. No one else was in danger, after all.

"I… I don't know." He admitted, thinking about all the freckled faces they'd left behind. Marco didn't seem comforted. "I can't promise anything, but I don't think my father could get away with going after a whole family what's done no harm." He reasoned.

That did seem to help, and Marco's brows relaxed just a bit as he eased into the general state of not moving as much as possible. Jean just sat with him for a long time, carding through his hair. But they couldn't just waste away in a decrepit barn; He hadn't carried Marco this far just to give up.

He got up, soaking the shirt again and cleaning Marco up as best he could, wiping at the ash that he hadn't paid much mind before going to sleep. He reapplied the salve, too, grimacing through the anguished noises Marco couldn't bite back.

Then he set to searching, rooting through piles of old, stale hay and cobwebs in hopes of finding the old cart. He'd nearly given up when, with a sound of annoyance, he realized that it was tucked right behind the door.

Upon wheeling it around a bit to check for any huge repairs that might be necessary, he found it to be in decent enough condition. It could use a few new parts, sure, and it squeaked something fierce, but it would be indescribably better than carrying Marco on his back.

Once he was sure it could take the weight and was in the best position possible, he got to work helping Marco up onto it. The other boy helped as much as he could, shifting as much as his body would allow to make it a bit easier to get him from the ground to the bed of the cart. Jean almost wished he hadn't, though, considering how much it apparently hurt. He didn't know how many more of Marco's cries he could handle.

After getting Marco situated as comfortably as he could, he sorted out the contents of the packs, shoving anything soft into one and tucking it under Marco's head. Everything else went into the other bag, and was tucked against Marco's side.

To say setting off was much easier this time around would be an understatement.

Though his muscles still ached from too much physical exertion, pulling the cart along was infinitely easier. Once he'd had some rest, and his screaming muscles had time to reconstruct themselves, he'd bet he could walk around the Earth thrice without much complaint.

A horse would be nice, though.

He'd have to make do, though. The poor didn't get a lot of choice, and he considered them lucky to have had the good fortune of transportation at all.

He found the path, since he didn't know the forest around this area, and didn't need to keep to it anymore anyway. With a trail to follow, he could afford to let his mind wander, and it helped to distract him from the way his body protested each step.

They were going to have to stop, at some point. The food they'd managed to bring along wouldn't last them very long. Marco needed medical attention. He had no idea what path he ought to take to get to the town where Marco's cousin lived. He didn't even know the name of it. He was going to have to check the tavern of every town even vaguely to the East.

But where could he get money for food? Where could he get a doctor for Marco? Where could he get directions to an unknown location?

It dawned on him how lost he was, and how scared that made him.

His plan seemed so perfect as he made it, and it had been going smoothly enough thus far. But strategies don't prepare you for the uncertainty of a new life.

Jean felt like a child, and he hadn't felt that way in a long time. So long he'd paraded around, demanding to be treated like an adult, dressing himself up and going to work, hoping to gain enough respect to be good enough for a father that had never loved him at any age anyway. But he thought, maybe, if he could just turn out right, maybe things might change.

But now he just felt like a child. A child that dressed up in adult's clothing, petulantly insisting he was old enough for responsibility, but afraid to take it. He wanted someone to hold him, to hush him, to tell him what to do, and how to fix all of his mistakes. Someone to forgive him, and help him, to guide him.

Childhood had to be put behind him, though. He had to be the person that forgave, and helped, and guided. He had to protect, and assure, and hush the quiet sobs that Marco seemed to have little control over as the cart jostled over rocks in the path.

He had to be the shoulder, wet with tears. He had to be the face of stony resolution even in the face of hopelessness. He had to be the comforting hands patting a trembling back as someone that needed him was wracked with uncertainty, fear, and pain.

He kept telling himself he had to be strong. Stronger than his fear, stronger than his father, stronger than the unknown, stronger than Marco's pain. But maybe he didn't. Maybe he just had to strong enough to know them, and overcome them.

Without much to work with, he fed Marco bits of stale bread dipped in a sticky jam that his mother had made. Marco would have to take breaks as he chewed, even his jaw too sore and weak to keep up the motion for too long. Jean was patient though, taking his own bites when Marco couldn't manage it anymore.

Once they'd both had a meager meal, he set back to walking until there was no more light to walk by, and he found a small clearing to rest in for the night. He just hoped there were no wild creatures that would disturb them. He had to rely on their luck alone in that respect.

But it would seem that the powers that be had had their fill of making their lives miserable, for they woke with all their limbs intact. Well, as intact as they'd been upon going to sleep, anyway.

Jean tended Marco's burns again, gritting his teeth and doing his best to ignore Marco's reluctant protests. As much as it made him wince, it served to keep him moving, no matter how much his legs wanted to give out. He threw together a sorry breakfast of some berries he found and a sliced apple from his bag to curb their appetites

It almost felt like the food had the opposite effect, though. Instead of feeling refreshed, Jean only felt hungrier. He could almost feel his stomach trying to eat itself. But he didn't dare stop to eat more. If he did, they'd run out of what food they had much faster.

But his resilience didn't last long when his stomach started growling loud enough for Marco to hear.

"Jean, eat." The other commanded weakly.

Biting his lip for a moment, Jean sighed. He couldn't exactly claim that he didn't need it. And Marco would only worry if he didn't stop.

He pulled the cart to the side of the path, sitting down next to Marco and pulling out the bread, and some cheese this time, cutting it with the knife his mother had packed him. Again, he fed Marco, taking bites in between. The cheese definitely felt more filling than the jam, so there was that. But it also disappeared a lot faster.

"…We need money." He announced with a grimace. Marco opened his eyes, blinking in the sunlight for a moment before focusing on Jean.

It was ironic. Jean had been around money his whole life. His father was the tax collector, after all. Jean had probably seen more money in one day than most people saw in their lives. It had always been present, but he'd never wanted for it.

Now that it was inaccessible to him, it was the only thing he wanted for. Not out of greed, but out of fear. Fear of starvation. Fear of losing Marco. Fear of having made it so far for naught.

"Sometimes you don't need money." Marco offered softly, his eyes too sincere for it to be a general statement. Jean blinked.

Then he heard stumbling feet, as if answering his curiosity. Before long, a head of blonde hair emerged from the nearby trees, glancing around before blue eyes landed on the two that sat staring back.

The girl left the trees behind, walking fully into view with a broad smile on her lips. She was beautiful, in an ethereal way. Sort of like Marco, Jean decided. She had that same knowing look, as if she was privy to the future.

"Marco?" She guessed.

Jean blinked, looking to Marco quizzically. But Marco didn't meet his gaze, looking instead to the girl, their eyes locked. Jean could see the conversation they were sharing, but he couldn't hear it. He had no idea what was being passed between them, but he calmed when Marco let out a sigh.

"Let's get you put back together." The girl suggested. It seemed to dawn on her that she hadn't acknowledged Jean at all, and she turned her smile on him in turn.

"My name is Historia. I don't know your name, but I know you're looking for Ymir." She offered.

Jean only continued to stare, mind unable to keep up. Historia appeared unfazed though, perhaps used to this sort of reaction. She only smiled a bit softer.

"I came to help you along." She explained. "And to get Marco in working order again." She added.

Jean looked at Marco, as if hoping for some sort of explanation, or even just a reassuring look, but the boy had his eyes closed again. His body looked more relaxed, at least.

Well, if Marco had no complaints, then Jean couldn't really argue. Help was help. And she seemed to know what she was talking about. Maybe he was just losing his sanity with his energy. Regardless, she seemed like a beacon of hope after days that had done their best to stamp his hope out entirely.

"U-Um-" He stuttered, standing up. "I'm Jean." He offered. He wasn't sure if he ought to shake her hand, maybe kiss it? But she simply nodded, walking up to his side.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. And, seeing as we'll be traveling together, we'll surely get to know each other better. But for now, I'd like to set Marco's bones before they heal wrong. Please follow me." She requested, looking at him pointedly until he scrambled to his feet, putting everything away and then getting into position to pull the cart again.

He had no idea who this Historia girl was, how she knew Marco, or Ymir, or how she'd found them. But for now, he'd have to trust her.

Historia proved to be good company. She led them to a nearby town where she'd stopped in at a shop to buy some bandages and food. When she returned, after making sure that Marco was asleep, she immediately got to work on correcting the positions of his bones and splinting them. Jean tried his best not to cringe at the noises and offer his assistance where he could.

After his bones were set, she helped him to discard the bandages made of the torn shirt, reapply the salve, and redress them with the fresh bandages. Marco didn't even stir.

With him taken care of, her next task was preparing something of a dinner, the smell of which had Jean's mouth watering and stomach growling. Marco finally roused from his slumber just as she was finishing up, letting Jean sit him up a bit so he could have some of the soup she'd made.

He already looked a million times better, his eyes not having to fight to stay open, and he managed to get through a whole bowl of soup without having to take a break to rest. It was improvement, and that was all that mattered.

Once she'd cleaned up from their supper, Historia suggested that they rest for the day, since they'd be walking for a while on the way to Ymir. And, seeing as she'd done them nothing but good thus far, Jean agreed, sidling up next to Marco and somehow finding the one position that allowed them to press together painlessly. Historia pulled a bedroll out of the large bag she had slung over her shoulders, settling down a few feet away and wishing them a good night. She was asleep only a few minutes later, the softest snores filtering their way under the sounds of the outdoors.

They'd been silent, but now that they had some privacy, Jean couldn't help but utilize it.

"Hey." He prompted. He knew Marco was awake, but he wanted to give him the option to feign sleep if he wasn't up to talking.

"Hello." The brunette replied, opening his eyes and finding it in him to offer a small smile. Jean mirrored it, but much larger, a bit elated to see the familiar expression after days of only grimacing.

"How are you feeling?" He inquired, looping an arm under his companion's neck carefully and rubbing his shoulder gently.

"Generally, like death." Marco replied, eyes falling shut again, though his lips were still quirked up in the shadow of a grin. Jean huffed at the morbid humor. "But definitely better than before." He added, tilting his head up as if he knew instinctually that Jean was leaning down to kiss him. Maybe he did. He probably did.

"Historia definitely did you some good." He agreed, glancing in the blonde's direction. She didn't stir. "Um… Do you know her?" He wondered. "Because she seems to know you."

Marco opened his eyes again, letting them blink a few times before offering an answer.

"We hadn't met previously, per se." He began after his pause. "But she's on a similar plane as me, but she's definitely higher. She's very open to experiences, and she can see the things I do, probably more. We've never met, but she probably sensed that she was needed, thanks to our shared ties with Ymir. Though we don't know each other, we feel a familiarity by proxy."

Jean couldn't really think of a way to respond, mostly because he couldn't really understand what Marco meant. He'd have to chalk it up to being one of Marco's weirdly magical talents and trust that they'd end up in a good place. And honestly, what had he to lose?

"…Did you know this whole time that I was going to save you?" Jean inquired, changing the subject. That might explain his relative calm, despite the situation he'd been in. Marco swallowed, thickly enough that Jean could see his throat bob.

"I knew you'd try." The taller boy finally offered after a pause that spanned what felt much too long a time. Maybe spending so much time with Marco had made him more perceptive, because Jean didn't miss what the pause implied. Marco clarified for him anyway. "I didn't think you would succeed."

Jean looked up at the stars that made their best attempt to shine through the leaves of the trees, taking in this revelation.

"You weren't supposed to succeed. I was supposed to die." Marco continued, chest heaving with a soft sigh. Jean's heart felt like it was being constricted at the mere thought. "To tell you the truth, I don't know exactly how you managed all this, Jean."

Marco shifted a bit, face drawn up in a pained scowl until he found a comfortable position and settled back down.

"If I'm being honest, I'm sort of lost right now. I didn't anticipate being alive this long, so my foresight… Well, I suppose we'll just call this an adventure. It'll be interesting to see what the world is going to bring us." He suggested, letting another smile pull at the corners of his lips.

Jean kept his eyes trained on Marco's smile, watching it naturally fade into neutrality, and eventually part as he fell asleep.

He felt a bit shaken knowing that Marco wasn't meant to be alive. But then, if that was true, then why had he survived? It was both confusing and empowering, to think he'd bettered fate itself. To think he'd pulled Marco straight out of fate's hands without apology.

It made him appreciate each of Marco's soft breaths just a little bit more.

Historia woke him in the morning with a bowl of porridge. Where she'd gotten milk, he had no idea, but he wasn't about to complain as he kissed Marco into consciousness and helped him through his portion. They didn't linger long, heading back to the path and continuing along it, through a couple towns.

Not much was said, aside from Historia's quiet chattering. She spoke nearly endlessly, the topics mostly unrelated. It was likely just for some noise to pass the time, which was later confirmed when she gave up on talking, and switched to a gentle singing voice, which waned into humming, and then silence as the day passed and became night. By the time they decided to rest for the day, it'd been a good two hours since anyone had uttered a word.

"We're getting close." Historia offered with a bright smile as she carefully cut a carrot into the soup that Jean was stirring for her. "If we keep good pace, we could make it into town by tomorrow night."

That was good news. Despite the tough façade he was putting up, Jean's legs had been wobbly at best lately. Forcing himself up that morning had been a true struggle, only bested by his desire to get Marco somewhere safe that he could properly recover.

If it was just one more day, he could do it. Having a timeline made the difference. One more day before he could heft Marco into a bed, and have a doctor look at him, and then curl up against his side, and sleep in the next morning, and not worry about whether they'd get attacked by animals or caught by persistent pursuers from town.

One more day.

Marco seemed to like the sound of that, too. He offered them both a generous smile from where he sat against a tree. Historia again took it upon herself to cook something for them. Jean offered what little was left in their packs, then tended the fire while she worked. It was another stew of some sort, but after nearly starving, he wasn't much picky.

After briefly attempting to feed himself in vain, Marco nudged his bowl into Jean's hand and they resumed the new usual of Jean eating in between Marco's bites.

"Sorry I'm so helpless, right now." He sighed, eyes perusing the grass beneath him. Jean rolled his eyes, dipping out another helping, since Marco had already finished his first.

"Hush. You don't need to apologize." He scolded, quirking a brow to dare the other boy to argue. "You're doing so much, already. You're alive." He reminded, voice softer.

Marco looked a little surprised when he lifted his head to look at Jean's face. Maybe he wasn't used to Jean saying things so sincerely. It sounded sort of grown-up.

He smiled, eventually, and nuzzled into the careful embrace Jean wrapped him in. Historia ate quietly, facing into the forest, watching birds and squirrels frolic and hiding a small smile. They went to bed with hearts lighter than they'd felt in days.

If only Jean's legs had felt half as light the next day. Instead, they felt like they were made of lead, with boulders as shoes. It was all he could do to drag them across the dirt of the path, dragging Marco behind him at a painstakingly brisk pace that Historia set. He probably would have keeled over if not for the promise of a real destination so near.

They were nearly there.

Historia pointed between two small mountains they'd been walking towards, downwards, and Jean spotted it; A town nestled in a valley, faint but real, and so close he could see it.

"That's it. Just a bit more." Historia urged, smiling encouragingly. Jean nodded, setting his jaw with his determination.

The sun had just hit the horizon when they found themselves at the edge of town. Maybe he was just hysterical from exhaustion, but the orange light that washed over the buildings and cast long shadows that obscured shapes in the pavement took his breath away.

It was an unfamiliar place, but it already felt more like home than where he'd come. People greeted Historia as they trudged through the streets, asked after Marco's wellbeing, even stopped them to insist they have a drink of water.

Finally, Historia pushed open the door to a wide-set building near what must have been the center of town. A bell rang above the door as she disappeared inside, then again as it closed behind her. Jean took the opportunity to rest his aching body, and he hopped up into the cart with Marco, sitting with his legs stretched out.

Marco smiled up at him, reaching out to squeeze his hand for a fleeting moment.

Historia returned with another woman in tow. She was much taller, and definitely shared the Bodt resemblance, dark complexion but freckles dotted along the parts of her skin that saw the most sunlight. The similarities ended there, though. Her look was sour, at best, and it was obvious in the quirk of her brow that she had a persistently bad attitude. Jean knew, because his brow quirked similarly.

She managed to crack a smile, though, when she finally located Marco, squinting against the sun with a hand up to provide her eyes shade.

"Wow, Marco." She breathed, traipsing over. "You look like you died and came back." She crooned, making Jean jump as she cackled. Marco chuckled along weakly.

"I might as well have." He agreed. "It's good to see you, Ymir."

The woman, Ymir, grinned.

"I'm sure it is. Come on, let's get you inside. Historia said to have a doctor ready, so I'm going to get him. But let's get you upstairs first." She suggested, nodding towards the building she'd come from.

Jean took that as his cue to get up and be useful, so he slithered out of the cart and onto his feet, wincing as he put his weight on his legs again.

Ymir seemed to notice him for the first time, and he watched her look him up and down, then take several seconds to pass a judgment. It didn't seem to be favorable, based on the face she pulled, but she didn't argue when he moved to help her get Marco inside.

Together, they managed to haul him inside what turned out to be a tavern, up the stairs and into one of the rooms. Jean didn't miss the way Marco's expression melted a bit as he finally got to sink into a bed, a real bed, with a pillow and blankets.

He smiled, petting Marco's hair when no one was paying attention.

We made it.

Marco didn't say it, but Jean could see it in his eyes. They were glowing like they hadn't in too long.

Ymir excused herself to fetch the doctor. Historia went to help the kitchen get dinner ready, promising to bring some up when it was done. The door shut behind her, and Jean turned back to Marco.

Wordlessly, he shifted onto the bed, squeezing himself into the space left along Marco's ribs and hip. He took his hand to squeeze again, but not too hard. Marco was still hurt. He would be for a while.

Jean still had to get a new job, to provide for them.

They still had to find a proper place to live.

Marco's family was still in unknown condition.

Their love still was taboo.

But for just a moment, Jean decided not to let himself care. They were alive, they were safe for the time being, and Marco was going to get the treatment he needed. Joan was far away and forgotten. Life was starting anew.

Marco's eyes caught the waning sunlight and sparkled like rum, and Jean let himself get drunk.

They were going to make it.

They were going to survive. Together.

Fate be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Yup. That three month wait sure did happen. I really struggled at the end here, especially since I wasn't sure how I wanted things to conclude. I've been floundering over this for literally months, and I just can't anymore. This is what I managed.
> 
> Sorry if it's not the ending you wanted/expected. To be honest, I went back and forth between Marco surviving and dying pretty much up until the chapter before this one. I rather solidly planned to have him die in the beginning, but the more that I talked it over with people, the more that seemed to be a cop out.
> 
> I then strongly considered having Marco pull a Houdini, escaping in a poof inexplicable to even Jean. But then the message would have been entirely lost.
> 
> So here we are. How did they defeat fate? THE POWER OF LOVE. And fire. The two most powerful things in the world.
> 
> If you can't tell, I'm winding down to the final conclusion. Gotta advertise before I go. You know how it is.
> 
> I've not been working on anything SnK related lately, to be honest. What I have posted right now is all I have planned at the moment. I'm sure I'll have a revival when I start up the anime again. I still have to see the movie too! And I'm really behind in the manga now…
> 
> Of late, I've been keeping up with Steven Universe and having my life altered by Life is Strange, so if you're in either of those fandoms then my profile might still be of some interest to you.
> 
> Alright, I'm rambling. I tend to draw out endings, and here I am, perpetuating my own sterotype. Thank you, to all of those resilient readers out there who had the patience to wait for all of these updates. I'm impressed, because I don't know if I could. You've all been great to me, and I've loved reading your feedback and talking with you when I could. It's been real guys.
> 
> KuroRiya  
> 九六りや

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to start posting this story, to be honest. It's a little tough to write, and I've had it looked over by several people already in a bid to improve it in any way I can. And, well, I've finally decided that it's time to get started.
> 
> As is probably obvious from this first chapter, this story is going to be a little less lighthearted than my other JeanMarco story. It's going to have more of a serious, heavier atmosphere. While there are some moments of peace and happiness, the general tone is supposed to be sort of subdued.
> 
> I'd also like to say; I have no real religious opinion. I am not Pagan, nor am I Christian. I don't particularly like or dislike either religion either. I understand that religion can be a really touchy subject as far as writing and fanworks are concerned, so I want to make it perfectly clear that what you read in this story is not necessarily what I think or feel. Take it for the artistic value, if you can? I do take some liberties, but I've got someone from both religions checking me for any huge mistakes.
> 
> That said, religion will play a pretty important part in the story. Not so much for plot advancement. At no point will I be preaching or trying to convert anyone. I don't put either religion in a perfect light. The religion is mainly used to fuel the way that the characters think and feel. For example, Jean's fear stems from his religion. It's things like that.
> 
> I make it sound scarier the longer I talk about it, hmm? Well, I promise, this is still a story about Jean and Marco, and how they fall in love. The religion is just sort of a spice added to make it interesting, I suppose. I'll have the next chapter up soon, and I'm going to go ahead and stop here before I say anything else that might scare readers away.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who took the time to check it out, and if you have time, feedback is appreciated! I hope to see some of you come back for the next chapter!
> 
> Till then,  
> KuroRiya
> 
> 九六りや


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